Full Disclosure
by RyderBPD
Summary: *#4* When Liz survives an attempt on her life and receives a threatening note the next day, it's Flack's turn to come to the rescue in Boston. Can she keep her feelings for him a secret? Rated M to be safe on behalf of Liz's foul mouth.
1. Day 1

Author's Note: This story takes place about ten months after Detective Angell's death. It's set in that home of the Red Sox and chow-dah, Boston. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from CSI:NY. No copyright infringement is intended. Liz Ryder, on the other hand, does belong to yours truly. **

* * *

The door to BPD closed behind me, cutting my body off from the last remnants of indoor warmth. Stepping out onto Columbus Avenue, I adjusted my hat, gloves and scarf, then pulled my coat tightly around my waist and set off towards the T stop.

March is a deceiving time in Boston. You think winter's blown its last chilled breath and then she beats you upside the head with a surprise snowstorm. The quiet icy sidewalks were slick despite grainy salt the city had flung their way throughout the day, and as a result my pace had slowed from its usual quick clip to a tentative plodding. As I was forced to carefully inspect every step I took, I grumbled internally about the black flats that were on my feet—for despite my love of the crisp and clear air of winter, its slushy mess on the ground meant that I couldn't wear my standard 3-inch heels.

It must have been this internal fixation on footwear that dulled my normal defensive reflexes, because I was completely surprised by the man that jumped out of the shadows and knocked me square into a lamp post. I managed to steer my head clear of the grooved iron, but the cold metal would not let my left shoulder escape its unyielding grasp. I heard a sickening crunch as my humerus smashed into its close friend the scapula, dislocating the entire joint. Recovering and turning to face my attacker, I held my right arm out in a basic defensive position. "What the hell?!" I heard myself shout. "What the fuck do you want?"

The response came, swift and angry. "I want the seven years of my life you stole from me, you bitch!" My racing brain couldn't place the guy's voice, and a dark baseball cap shielded most of his face. Odd, since he'd just identified himself as someone I was supposedly connected to. Unfortunately, the knife in his right hand left me little time for mental processing. I tried to stall him with some good old-fashioned shrink speak: "Look, sir, let's just talk about this. You say I've wronged you somehow. Maybe if you explain it to me further I can help you."

Dude wasn't havin' any of it. "Screw that!" he said. "I'm gonna kill you!" He rushed at me, brandishing the long knife. Although my left arm was crippled, there was nothing wrong with my legs, and just as my attacker was about to strike I lashed out with a quick roundhouse kick to neutralize his weapon. It worked, and my foot sent the knife skipping across the ice before it came to rest about twenty feet away. As the mystery man's eyes turned to follow his disappearing leverage, I punched him in the face and broke his nose. He went down hard, falling backwards and leaving his groin area exposed. I didn't hesitate, landing another hard kick right where the sun don't shine.

As he groaned and writhed in the middle of the sidewalk, I rubbed my aching shoulder and spat in anger close to his head. "Y'know, some people might say you had real balls, jumpin' a woman by herself in the middle of the night. What your testicles didn't count on was my black belt, you stupid son of a bitch. Whoever you are, your ass is goin' to jail." I pulled out my phone and called the building I'd left not five minutes before. "Jimmy, I need a hand out here on Columbus," I told my favorite desk jockey. "Some idiot thought it'd be a good idea to rough me up four blocks away from a police station."

About thirty seconds later, two uniforms came running down the street in snow boots, guns drawn. "Ryder, you okay?" I could make out the looks of concern on their faces even in the dim light. "Yeah, boys, I'm all right. Let's get this scumbag back to PD so I can find out what his damn problem is." While Maurizio Moretti secured the still-moaning perp, the other (a good pal of mine, Paul O'Connell) rushed to my side. "What happened?"

I relayed the story with as much detail as I could, and when I had finished O'Connell checked me out for injuries. I had some of the bastard's blood on my hand from the punch I'd landed, but the biggest casualty was my jammed shoulder. It hurt to move my left arm even an inch, and when O'Connell saw this he urged me to go to the hospital. "I will, man, I promise," I said, holding up my right index and middle finger in the "Scout's Honor" sign. "But I gotta find out what this guy's beef is first."

He shrugged and smiled. "You got it, Doc." The four of us made the short trip back to PD—Moretti pushing my cuffed attacker down the street in front while O'Connell and I brought up the rear. After snapping a quick photo of the assailant, the Italian half of my rescue team shoved him into an interrogation room, and once I'd constructed a makeshift sling from a pair of pantyhose in my desk I sat down across the table from the guy who'd ruined my evening.

"Start talking, jackass," I said. "Who are you and why'd you jump me?"

In the process of plunking the perp down into a seat, Moretti had whipped off the guy's baseball hat, revealing a blazing pair of blue eyes staring out at me from underneath a mop of blonde hair. Guy looked to be about forty, evidenced by his slightly thinning follicles and the crow's feet around his eyes.

"I told you," he shot back with a slightly southern accent. "I want those years of my life back that you took from me. I'm not sayin' nothin' else."

He leaned back in his chair and stayed there, giving me a look of superiority in spite of his cuffed hands.

"Fine," I replied. "I'll do the talking. You chose to attack me under the cover of darkness, indicating cowardice and a fear of recognition. You must have been watching me and tracking my movements for some time, for while it's dangerous to strike so close to a police station, I'm here late every single Friday night. The presence of a knife highlights the desire for a personal attack as opposed to the quick finality of a gun. How am I doin' so far, sport?"

Silence continued to emanate from the other end of the cold steel table. Just then, Moretti came to the interrogation room's door and knocked on the glass. He held up a file folder and motioned for me to come out in the hall. I obliged—but not before turning to my anonymous scumbag and scoffing audibly.

"What's up, _donnaiolo?_" Moretti laughed at my Italian slang, blushing and sweeping a stray black hair out of his handsome face. He sighed. "Ryder, siete una bella donna—bella, ma una saccente." "I promise not to make you tell me what that means if you tell me what's in that file," I quipped. He handed me the manila folder and, opening it to the first page, I stood silent for a moment. Paper-clipped to the inside of the folder was a mug shot of a man in his early thirties. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a scar on his left cheek. I looked back through the glass, examining the room's occupant more closely. "It's him!" I exclaimed, turning to Moretti. "Same jerk. How'd you pin him down?"

"O'Connell ran his picture through our database of convicted felons," Moretti explained. "Looks like this guy went away for multiple rapes seven years ago." "What's that got to do with me?" "Looks like you and PK were the arrestings on the case, and that the perp was tryin' to pull off an insanity plea. Only you didn't buy his act, and told Vargas she should examine the guy in addition to the shrink his lawyer was bankrollin'. Guy's scam fell apart under her questioning."

I reached back into the catacombs of my mind and found hints of memories associated with the case. I had just started developing an interest in the wonders of brain chemistry, and so began closely observing the many crazies that came through BPD's doors. In the case of this particular perp, I'd noticed a wink that had passed between the suspect and his lawyer during initial interrogation. Adding that to some inconsistencies in his story produced enough doubt in my mind to call for further investigation, and as Moretti said, the guy's ruse cracked in half. _Now what was his name? _I thought to myself. _Something that sounded like a guy Casey dated in high school. I hated that punk. Rayburn? No, no—Redmond? Wait, that's it! Radman!_

"Taylor Radman," I said aloud. I glanced at the tab on the side of the folder and confirmed my recollection. "Thanks, man," I said to Moretti. "No problem, Doc," he said. "I'll be right out here to hook him up once you're done." Tucking the folder under my immobilized left arm, I opened the door and stepped back into the cubicle of questioning. I once again took my seat across from Radman.

"You're not gettin' anything outta me, sweetheart," he said. "I want a lawyer."

I ignored this little bluff and gave him a wicked grin.

"So, you're throwin' a little hissy fit 'cause I helped bust your ass all those years ago, huh Taylor?" His eyes widened and he lurched forward so that his chest was pressing into the table. "That's right. I know who you are. And I know what you did. Sorry, buddy—just couldn't let ya get away with that fake insanity crap. In this country people have to sack up and take responsibility for the crimes they commit."

"Those girls wanted me!" he said, suddenly screaming. "They was mine, and I took 'em! And then you and that stupid Mick partner of yours ruined everything!"

Before I knew what I was doing, I lunged across the table and took Radman by the throat. "That 'Mick partner' of mine and I stopped you from raping women for seven years, you piece of shit! You deserved every damn minute of that prison sentence! And now, guess what? You're goin' back to jail for assault and the attempted murder of a Boston police officer!" By this time Moretti had burst into the room and dislodged my hand from Radman's neck. "All right, Doc. All right. Let him go." He squeezed my hand comfortingly, then turned to Taylor. Spinning him around, Moretti read him his Mirandas and led the mayor of Loserville down to booking.

Meanwhile, O'Connell brought me a glass of water and checked my status. "You all right?" "Yeah," I said slowly, still shaking. "I hope I didn't ruin your conviction chances with my little outburst. I was already amped up from the attack, y'know? And then when he said that about Pak-Man I just snapped." A look of understanding crossed O'Connell's face, and he nodded sympathetically. "I hear ya, Liz—and I do appreciate you stickin' up for us Irish guys. But you gotta remember that no matter what anyone else says about him, PK was a great cop. Nobody can take the time you guys had away from ya."

"Damn, O'Connell, you're startin' to sound like me," I said, grinning. "Maybe you should be the shrink and I'll take your drug raids down south." "Well, that depends," he said, pretending to seriously consider the offer. "How many single women patients you got?" We laughed, and I relaxed a little. Moretti came back from processing Radman and the two unis insisted on taking me to the hospital. I was too exhausted to argue, so after stopping at Mass General for a proper sling, the boys of Boston's finest dropped me right in front of my door in Cambridge.

Although I'd joked around with the guys in the squad car, upon shutting my house's heavy oak door the masquerade ended. The stress of the evening's events escaped my lungs with a rush as I sank to the floor and began to cry. While I wasn't surprised that I'd escaped the altercation, the sheer shock of being jumped stung my entire body. I hadn't felt that vulnerable in years.

I'm not sure how long I sat there sobbing beneath my mail slot, but eventually I picked myself up off the floor and walked into the kitchen. Sniffing as I wiped the tears from my puffy eyes, I poured my energy into filling the kettle and then put it on to boil. Twenty minutes later, I was sipping chamomile tea and gazing into the flames of a crackling fire. The night's attack had definitely penetrated the tough front I'd been meticulously constructing over the course of my lifetime. Matty's death and Mom's passing were responsible for the largest cracks in its foundation, but Radman's attempt on my life had also cut all the way to my core.

If I had been walking with a man, I thought, tonight's attack never would have happened. This made my internal feminist bristle, and she voiced her displeasure immediately. _Don't you start that blaming crap! _She screamed. _What happened earlier is Radman's fault and nobody else's! We've never needed a man to get through life before--why start now because of one dumbfuck rapist? _

Okay, let me rephrase that, I responded. (What, you think shrinks don't talk to themselves? Hah!) I've become careless with my life—I trust too much in my self-defense skills while I dare the world to help me prove that I'm a strong woman. _Yeah, but who would you want walking by our side? Certainly not either of the losers you've dated in the last six months. _Here I had to concede a point to the girl-power part of my personality--she of the black emo glasses and spiked pink hair. Both Mike and Jason, despite their hot bodies and initial interests in common with my own, ended up being Grade-A dicks.

Sitting there in my pajamas, I realized just how lonely I was.

My pity party was interrupted by the sudden presence of four paws in my lap and a loud yowl. "I'm sorry, buddy," I said, stroking Jack's silky hair. "Of course I'm not alone. I've got you as long as I can afford to keep puttin' food in your dish." I smiled as I kept petting my beloved cat, producing a steady purr from his throat. Still, I couldn't keep my mind from wandering to the one guy I'd let walk me down any street, day or night. Reaching over to the end table and picking up my phone, I stared intently at its screen as though it would dial Flack's number for me. I couldn't do it, though. I didn't want to lay my fears on him in the middle of the night. He'd just recently started sleeping normally again after nine months of nightmares—with Jess' lifeless face haunting each one.

Just then my phone rang, producing multiple reactions. I jumped about a foot in the air, Jack freaked out (ripping my PJs and raking my leg with his claws in the process) and I spilled my still-steaming tea all over the place. The surprise produced by the phone call itself, though, was nothing compared to what I felt upon seeing the name that had popped up on the Caller ID. Just one letter was stamped on the Razr's illuminated screen: **D**.

Flinging the soaked Pats blanket off my lap, I drew in a deep breath and answered the phone. "Hey, man, what's up?" The very essence of cool. He'd never know my left leg was bleeding and that I'd narrowly escaped death just hours before.

The immediately evident concern in Flack's rich voice slid in through my ear and warmed my entire body. "Liz, you okay? What's wrong?" Apparently my perceived "mad concealment skills" left much to be desired. "Yeah, yeah, I'm all right. Such a damn klutz--I spilled some tea on myself right before you called." "C'mon, Ryder—I've heard better lies from kindergarteners. Your voice sounds like you've been cryin'." For a second I thought about dropping the façade and telling him why I needed the tea and the fire in the first place. Why my arm was in a sling and why I probably wouldn't sleep tonight. But he had called me for a reason, and I didn't want to detract from whatever it was that he needed. "It's cool, D—I'm fine. Just something in my throat is all. What about you? You all right?"

He paused as though he was going to pry further, but then gave in to my change of subject. "Eh, I just wanted to see if you were awake. I can't sleep." Relief washed over me, and I silently thanked Flack for giving me a distraction from the knife attack. I shifted into shrink mode and began tackling my friend's problem. "You having nightmares again?" "Kinda," he replied. "You remember how I was always dreamin' about her face? Like she was right in front of me but I couldn't touch her?" "Yeah, of course. Is that still happening?" His words got kind of garbled for a moment—either he was talking with a finger in his mouth or my phone had cut out. "Say again?" I asked. He sighed and cleared his throat. "Sorry. You know me. Not always good at doin' this 'talk about your feelings' stuff." "S'okay," I said, reassuringly. "Take your time."

When he finally spoke again his voice was softer, trembling just the slightest bit. "With those first dreams she was too real, y'know? I could see every line on her face, the pieces of her hair that stuck out funny—those gold flecks in her eyes. I woke up reachin' out to touch her every single time. But now, I'm startin' to have dreams where I can't remember what she looks like. Her face is all blurry, and when I wake up I gotta look at a picture just so I don't forget."

As he spoke I found myself nodding enthusiastically, the way I do when I'm with a patient. It's a way of making the speaker feel validated and helps him realize that what he's experiencing is normal. I made sure to wait until Flack had finished, and then tried to speak as a friend, not just a doctor. "You're not forgetting Jess, Flack. I know that's what it must feel like, but what's really happening is that your brain is working through the anger you've felt regarding her death. As the intensity of that rage fades, sometimes there's a few other things that relax—like your ability to see her face perfectly clearly."

"That's the thing, though, Liz. . .it's like bein' pissed off is the only weapon I've had this whole time. It ain't easy bein' so angry, but it's like if I'm not mad about her dyin', somehow I'm lettin' her murderers off the hook."

"Hm." The infamous clinical musing—a stalling tactic used while we medical professionals think of something to say. "Does it help to think about the fact that her killer is dead?" No point in skirting the issue at one in the morning. I could almost hear him shrug over the phone as he delivered his response. "Yes and no. It's what the bastard deserved, but it's prob'ly the worst moment I've ever had as a cop. I guess any relief I feel at him bein' dead is wiped out by me bein' mad at myself for losin' control like that."

"Well, I'm not condoning shooting unarmed suspects on a regular basis, but you might wanna take what you did to that piece of shit as an indication of just how much you cared about Jess. This decision that makes you so angry could be turned around and seen as a declaration of love for her. Protecting her honor and avenging her death."

"Yeah. I dunno. What I do know is that she's been gone for ten months now and I still don't feel like myself."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Well, yeah, actually. I gotta get out of the city. Work's been pretty crazy and I'm thinkin' a few days away might help me clear my head. You hangin' around home this weekend?"

"Yeah," I managed to squeak out. For some reason my lungs didn't feel like breathing normally at the prospect of Flack coming up north. "Nothin' goin' on here but the Bruins and Celtics on TV."

I swear I heard him smile at this. "Can I come up and stay at your place for a couple nights?"

At this point I had to ask my heart to kindly stop beating the crap out of my rib cage. The man had just described enduring heartbreak over his murdered girlfriend, for crying out loud. Not exactly a solid base for a romantic weekend. I did my best to keep from sounding like a kid crashing through puberty and offered the following:

"Oh yeah, totally. No problem. Hey, but what about Jack? Aren't you allergic?"

"Y'know, it's funny, but the last time I was up there I didn't have any problems at all. I think yours might be the one cat that doesn't make my nose act like Niagara."

I laughed. "Good. What time you wanna come up tomorrow?"

"I'm thinkin' around two-ish. That way I'll have time to write down all the questions I plan on firing at your lyin' ass so you'll tell me what happened tonight."

I ignored the latter part of his response, but blushed at the thought that he cared. "Two it is. Why don't you meet me at my office down in Brookline?"

"Sure. Text me the address after we hang up."

"You think you can figure out the Boston subway on your own? Or does it make too much sense compared to the MTA?"

Now it was his turn to ignore some of my words. "Sleep well, smartass. I'll see ya tomorrow. Thanks for lettin' me invite myself over."

"Anytime, D. I hope you sleep well too. Maybe try lookin' at a picture of Jess right now before you go to bed so you don't have to worry about forgetting her face."

"Thanks, pal. G'night."

"Night, Don."

I flipped my phone closed long enough to end the call, then opened it again to fire off my office address via text message. As I typed out the numbers I reminded myself who this weekend was really supposed to benefit. _The next two days are for Flack,_ my brain scolded my giddy heart. _You stay the hell out of this._

Hitting "Send" and then turning off my phone, I stretched and doused the fire with a glass of water. I walked every inch of the hardwood floors of my house, checking all of the windows and doors. I made sure to pay special attention to the sturdy locks keeping me from the Taylor Radmans of the world. Arriving in my room, I undressed and climbed into bed. Pretty soon Jack settled into his normal spot on the pillow beside my head, the familiarity of which should have sent me into the land of dreams. But my body felt like the intersection of two hurricanes; one furiously whirling monster of fear from the attempt on my life met the other equally strong storm of my feelings for Flack, and I felt like a ravaged landscape torn up in the wake of the collision.

But eventually I managed to beat both into submission. The winds quieted, and I sensed a feeling of happy anticipation spreading through my body. I finally drifted off to sleep with thoughts of my friend in my heart and a smile on my face.


	2. Day 2

Day 2

At 1:59 PM the next day, I was sitting in my comfy shrink's chair pretending not to look at the clock. Practically a ream's worth of paper littered the desk as I bored my green eyes into the contents of a patient's file, unsuccessfully attempting to focus. I blew a stray red hair out of my face and sighed. _Knock it off, Liz, _I ordered. _Knock. It. Off. You are simply hosting a friend for the weekend. Nothing more_.

I didn't have time to laugh at the absurdity of that statement, because suddenly the doorbell sounded and I heard the door to my waiting room swing open. "Hey! Is there a Doctor in the house?" Flack's voice sounded a little hoarse, but happy. I managed not to jump up from my work and giddily run towards Don's cheery words, but I couldn't keep a shit-eating grin from spreading between my lips upon seeing his face. He returned my smile initially, but his face twisted into a look of horror upon seeing the sling cradling my left arm. "Lizzie! What the hell?! Last night on the phone you told me you were fine!"

He was angrier than I'd expected, and I made a mental note never to lie to Donald Flack Junior ever again. My face flushed, and I stared at the floor like a busted little kid while delivering my response. "I'm sorry, D," I said, quietly. "I didn't want to worry you. I know you've been goin' through a lot lately and I just wanted to focus on whatever it was you needed last night. I wasn't trying to be deceitful."

Flack folded his arms across his broad sweater-adorned chest, maintaining a stern expression. A few moments passed, and then he sighed deeply. "All right," he said. "That does it. Come on." Don gently led me by the right elbow into my office, and wordlessly instructed me to sit where my patients normally do. I obliged, my mind flooded with confusion. Flack grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from my desk, sat down in my chair and effeminately crossed those long legs as best he could. The good Detective looked down his angular nose at me and, keeping a straight face, demanded, "Now, tell me everything."

I started to balk, but took one look at his insistently pursed lips and gave in. "Okay," I began, putting my hands behind my head. "Last night I was walking to the T from the precinct, and there was a lot of ice on the sidewalk, so I was lookin' at my feet instead of what was in front of me." Flack scribbled furiously on the pad of paper and nodded his head vigorously. "M-hm, m-hm, m-hm. Now, how did all that ice make you _feel_?"

I exhaled indignantly and stood up from the couch. "Do you want this story or not, jackass?" "All right, all right, all right," said my buddy in that quick accent. "But you deserve at least a little crap for keepin' this from me." "That's fair. Now may I continue, Doctor Flack?" "By all means," he said, with a slightly patronizing tone. "Take your time. Gather your thoughts together." I glared at him once more before launching into a detailed account of the attempt on my life. My right hand moved rapidly as I pantomimed the collision with the lamppost and the kick that had neutralized Radman's knife. To needle the native New Yorker sitting across from me, I made sure to emphasize the _fantastic_ job I thought the Boston unis had done in coming to my aid. "Brilliant job, really. Those boys should be given a raise, the way they came flyin' down the block in their snowboots." Don scoffed at this, but as I kept talking a frown etched itself ever deeper into his expressive face.

When I had finished my tale, he sat silently for a moment. Then his blue eyes softened and he rose from the chair to join me on the couch. "I'm glad you're ok." "Thanks, D," I said. "It was pretty scary there for a few minutes. But it's all over now." Flack shook his head, somewhat sadly. "I don't think it is, Lizzie." "Why? What makes you say that?" He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "I found this on the door when I walked in."

"What?!" I was aghast. "Who's withholding information now, Detective?" "Ryder, please. Just read it."

My slightly trembling fingers pulled open the folded piece of paper to reveal the following:

_Boston Bitches_  
_Too Big For Their Britches_  
_End Up In Ditches_  
_And Finally Stytches._

The thick red ink thrust each frightening letter straight into my thumping heart. I didn't even pretend to put up a tough front. "Jesus," I uttered, softly. Flack put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. "Don't worry,Lizzie. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

The soothing presence of Flack's hand on my shoulder jolted my stunned brain into action. _Was this a joke? Why did this clown leave a note on my door instead of coming into the unlocked office? Who could possibly want me dead? _Swirling clouds of questions engulfed my mind, and I couldn't find a path of logic through their choking smoke. Instead, I reached out for my sense of humor and held on for dear life. "Well," I said slowly, "apparently this whackjob poet is gonna tell me a few jokes when I bust his ass. I mean, it says I'll be endin' up in stitches." I gave Flack a halfhearted smile, and he grinned at me while patting my back protectively.

After a few more moments of silence, I jumped up from the couch and announced, "All right. I gotta get to a place where I can think." Flack looked confused. "Where better than a shrink's office?" "Nah. Not here. This is where I have to listen to everybody else all day long. I go somewhere else to get my real thinking done." He cocked his head sideways and looked at me quizzically. "And where is this mysterious site of solitude?" "Let's just say it involves a delicious bread product and the best ballpark in the whole wide world." Flack groaned. "Ryder. You're not gonna make me go to Fenway, are you?" I scolded him immediately. "Detective Flack, may I remind you that we're dealin' with a death threat here? The least you can do is take your little Yankee fan self and suck up your hatred for a few minutes." "The things I do for friends," he sighed in mock exasperation. "All right, let's do it."

We left my office and stepped out into the brisk March air. I noted that Flack looked rather classy in the peacoat and white scarf he'd layered over his blue sweater, but immediately scolded myself in response to this. _Jess! Jess! Jess! _screamed my brain. _Any time you even __think__ about Flack like that this weekend, I'm gonna fill your head with her name. His heart belongs to her! _As we walked I couldn't help but glance around furtively, checking every shadow for signs of would-be killers. I relaxed somewhat when I remembered that I had a physically imposing New York cop at my side, but even Flack's strong energy couldn't completely eliminate the fear gripping my stomach.

Our stroll down Brookline Avenue ended when we came to Yawkey Way and turned right onto the Street of the Sox. In front of my eyes rose the familiar dark green edifices that make up the majesty of Fenway Park. I closed my eyes and thought about next month's Opening Day. . .when the stands would be shakin' with the sound of 40,000 cheering fans. Unrecognizable would be the street our feet were currently traversing—for instead of empty grey asphalt, the blocks would be filled with die-hard Red Sox followers, clad in gear from hats in every color of the rainbow to t-shirts emblazoned with two of the best words in the English language: YANKEES SUCK. Ahhh. I was suddenly at peace. My reverie was interrupted, however, by the dark-haired man standing next to me.

"Ryder, ya got any Tums? My stomach's not feelin' so good." A look of concern crossed my face and I began searching through the cavernous black purse looped over my arm. "No, man, I'm sorry. What's wrong? It just come on all of a sudden?" He rubbed his midsection and made a face. "Yeah. It's the leftover stink of so many Sox fans in one place. I think I'm gonna be sick." I punched him in the arm and laughingly pointed a finger in his face. "So a World Series win wasn't enough, hah? You still gotta hate on my boys?!" "Don't get mad, Ryder. It ain't my fault your guys choked big-time in the playoffs." I gave a nod of concession, my eyes blazing. "Yeah, yeah, okay, I was mad--until last month. I don't think we need to rehash the Super Bowl spanking my Pats gave the Giants and your little frowny-faced Eli, do you?" He bit his tongue and laughed. "Whatever. You take your pretty-boy GQ quarterback and soak that up while ya can, Lizzie. My Rangers are gonna school your damn Bruins in a coupla weeks." I took his elbow and yanked on it playfully."We'll see about that. C'mon, smartass. To think I was actually concerned about your well-being."

Continuing on, we stopped at the Dunkin' Donuts stand near the northwest corner of the stadium, where I bought a sesame bagel and hot chocolate for myself. Flack was about to pay for his old-fashioned glazed when I slapped his hand away. "_Liz_," he started. "You're my guest this weekend, Flack. Cut it out." He almost pressed further, but before he could get a word out I said, "If you pay I'll tell Messer you spent NYPD money not fifty feet from Fenway." This, not surprisingly, was enough to make him tuck his wallet back into his jeans.

We took our mid-afternoon snacks to a bench farther down Yawkey and ate slowly, enjoying the slight wind coming off of the Charles. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional shudder from Flack—presumably more life-threatening side effects from RedSox-itis. When I had completely polished off my cream cheese-slathered pinnacle of bagel perfection, I wiped my mouth, shook the toasted sesame seeds off my coat and began to articulate my thoughts.

"Okay. So this guy (or chick, I guess) writes out a threatening note and leaves it on my office door instead of coming in and whackin' me directly. He wants me to be scared—wants to see me afraid to go home tonight. Probably figured I wouldn't have any visitors on a Saturday. Wasn't counting on you as the x-factor."

Flack nodded solemnly, his sky-colored eyes reaching out with wordless compassion. "Now," I continued, "the actual text of the poem seems to indicate that I've overstepped my bounds in some way. I have specifically done something that puts me in a category of women who don't know their place. . .which makes me think male stalker, but I can't be sure. As for the writer's identity, he probably works in the medical field, something surrounding anatomy. I mean, when most people kill someone, they only think about the murder up until the point of death—maybe body disposal if they're really chill. But see?" Here I pointed to the last line of the note. "I'm gonna 'end up in stytches.' He spelled it wrong on purpose to highlight the Y. Indicating that I'll be sewn up after the Y incision of an autopsy. . .ugh." Shuddering, I trailed off, leaned back against the bench and began nervously gnawing on a fingernail.

"What kinda cases you been workin' lately, Lizzie?" Flack queried, clasping his hands together and leaning towards me. "You put away any perps who got some pissed-off family members?" I shook my head. "Nah, it's weird, actually— work's been shifting both in the precinct and in my practice. I'm helping a lot more women now with individual therapy; y'know, seein' the other side of the violent world I've worked in for so long. And when I'm with the BPD boys, we're tackling more passive crimes, like threats and poisonings rather than rape-murders." I shrugged after completing this sentence, tossing my free hand in the air. "Okay," he began again. "Noticed anyone followin' you? Seen a car that isn't normally on your street or gotten any hang-up calls?"

"Nada on all counts. It's totally out of the blue. I'm thinkin' you may be right in your guess that the note is connected to the knife attack last night." "Yeah, speakin' of which, why would Radman attack you? From what you told me, Doc Vargas was the one who really nailed his ass to the wall." I thought about this for a second, "That's a good question. I figure it's 'cause I'm the only one left from the original case. PK's been gone for four years now, and Vargas died of breast cancer just last October. So that leaves me."

"Well, then we gotta figure out who else knows about yesterday's attempted stabbing. Should point us in the direction of the psycho that wrote that nice little sonnet for ya." He gestured to the piece of paper clutched tightly in my gloved hand.

I stood up, straightening my clothes. "Good call, D. Let's go--uh, find us a pen name, if you will." I smiled as he rolled his eyes. "Where to, Ryder?" I tucked the note into my jacket pocket and patted it for emphasis. "This little baby's goin' to my buddy Ashley over at the Crime Lab," I replied. "Ain't no lawbreaker safe from her mad skills."

Flack and I took the short walk to the Green Line's Kenmore station and hopped onto the subway. Five minutes later, we exited the doors of North Station and headed in a northwesterly direction. Soon the simple red bricks of the Boston Crime Lab rose up in front of us, blending in with the rest of the block's simple New England architecture. I jogged ahead a few steps and pulled open the front door, bowing as I indicated that Flack should enter. "Age before beauty, Detective." He scoffed, and as he passed through the doorway flicked my right ear with his thumb and middle finger. "Ow! Man, you geezers really can't take a joke, can ya?"

Just for fun, I flashed my badge at the stern-looking woman sitting behind the reception desk, asking, "Hey, Mary—is Ash around?" The frowning face in front of me relaxed and morphed into a smile. "Hiya Liz. Who's he?" "This is Detective Don Flack, NYPD. Helpin' me with a case." Mary sat back in her chair, crossed her arms and grinned. "New Yorker, huh? Well, I seen worse lookin' cops in my time. I s'pose I'll let ya in my lab." Flack gave the smug little bespectacled woman his best smile and said, oh-so-sweetly, "Thank you, ma'am. I'll be sure to treat every test tube with the utmost respect." "You do that, hon," she replied, nodding. "'Cause I'll kick your ass out if ya don't." Turning to her computer, Mary pulled up the electronic check-in program and highlighted a purple bar reading 'Ashley Parker.' "Yep, she's here. Want me to call up?"

"Nah, we'll surprise her." Mary gestured to Flack. "Well, I'm sure she'll appreciate that part of the surprise." Don blushed a little, and I laughed. "C'mon, D, let's go. Thanks, Mary." "Yeah, no problem," she said. "And Detective Flack?" Flack turned, raising innocent-looking eyebrows. "Yes?" "You make sure you keep an eye on that little firecracker standin' next to ya. She'll get ya in trouble if you're not careful." Flack tapped the side of his head and nodded. "Thanks for the warnin'. I'll do my best to keep her under control." He looked at me, pointing a finger in my face and feigning seriousness. "You hear that, Ryder? No false moves." I rolled my eyes and shoved him towards the stairs. "What, no elevator?" "It's only three flights, you wuss. Besides, I didn't have time to do my calf exercises this morning. So quit your whinin' and get climbing."

Flack and I crested the last stair a few minutes later and stepped out into the hallway of the third floor. Large bay windows lined the walls of this section of the lab, the glass scattering pieces of the afternoon sun across sparkling white floor tiles. BPD's crime lab is unique in that aside from a few enclosed rooms for chemical testing, the majority of the space is open. Thus it wasn't hard to spot the back of Ashley Parker's head from across the room. I quietly snuck over to her work station and, in my best stern voice, said, "Ms. Parker?" Ash's head of jet-black hair whipped around, and I was confronted with a wide pair of dark brown eyes. Upon seeing my face, she exhaled quickly and smacked me in my bad shoulder with her hand. I grimaced, but didn't cry out. I didn't feel like telling the Radman story again. "Damn you, Liz! I thought you were Stevenson for a sec there." Ash stripped her gloves off and wrapped me in a quick hug. "How you doin', girl? You excited for Wednesday?" "You bet your ass I am. Celtics versus Knicks on Saint Patrick's Day. . .I still can't believe we got tickets!" Flack cleared his throat. "Lizzie, you wanna introduce me to your fellow misguided sports fan here?" "Right, sorry about that. Ash, this is my good friend Don Flack. D, this is Ashley Parker." Flack and Ash shook hands and chimed in unison, "Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about ya." They laughed and flashed each other their equally dazzling smiles.

As their eyes met, I felt hot jealousy shoot through my entire body. _Why doesn't Flack look at __me__ like that? _I quickly caught myself, through, and remembered how hard it was for Flack's lips to turn up even the slightest bit in the days following Jess' death. _I should be celebrating that smile on his face, not bemoaning it._ _Besides_, _Ash always has men __and__ women crawling all over her. I gotta play bodyguard practically every time we go out. _I didn't blame her pursuers, though—with gorgeous chocolate skin, an infectious laugh and a brilliant mind, Ms. Ashley Parker was truly the complete package. I snapped out of my daze to find Ash and Flack arguing about—what else?—a New York-Boston sports rivalry. "We're a triple-threat, Flack," Ash was saying. "Allen, Garnett, Pierce. . .when they're healthy, nobody stops us." "Yeah, except Kobe," Flack shot back. "At least we got one or two players who can actually stick with him the whole game."

"Okay, okay, guys. Ash, much as I agree with you, we're here because I need your help with something." Instantly her joking demeanor was gone, replaced with a slightly furrowed brow. The face of a woman ready to deploy the scientific method in order to nail a perp. "Whatcha got?" "Well, last night I had a little run-in with a guy PK and I put away seven years ago. Wasn't a huge deal, y'know? I thought it was just an isolated incident." Flack broke in at this point, gesturing to me and saying, "Don't listen to that load of crap, Parker. The scumbag was gonna kill her." He pulled the left portion of my coat to the side, revealing the sling underneath. Ash's eyes widened and then narrowed to slits. "Did he put you in that thing, Lizzie?" I was caught. No more trying to spare my friend the ugly details. "Yeah. Dislocated my shoulder. But I don't have a scratch on me. I kicked the knife outta his hand before he could do anything with it." Ash sighed exasperatedly at me and looked at Flack. The two shared a knowing look before Parker said, "So what happened today, Flack?" "Well, I showed up at the good Doctor's office around two and found a little love letter on her doorstep." He gestured to the note in my hand, which I slid over the table.

Ash gloved up again and picked up the note. She gave a low whistle upon finishing the short poem. "Jesus, Liz. So you have no idea who's responsible for this?" I shook my head. "I've been able to draw some preliminary conclusions regarding the note writer's psychological profile, but nothing that resonates with any recent cases I've worked on. So Flack and I are thinking that it's somehow connected to yesterday's attack." She nodded her head, still looking at the note. "Okay. What time did you get to your office this morning?" "Eleven-thirty." "Right, so that gives us a two and a half hour window for the drop-off. I'll analyze the paper and see if I can't figure out how long it was exposed to the sunlight. I'll also dust it for prints. Did you both handle it?" "Yeah, but our prints are on file—mine up here and his in the NYPD database."

Suddenly Ash brought the paper closer to her face and muttered, "Damn, Gina." "What?" Flack asked. "What is it?" "This ain't ink, kids." "No?" A shakier voice had never escaped my throat. My favorite CSI took a quick swab of the note and doused it with that ever-telling mixture of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide. The swab's tip turned cotton-candy pink in front of our eyes, which could only mean one thing. Flack gave a voice to the chilling inevitable conclusion: "It's written in blood."

I pushed my right hand firmly through my hair and let out a sigh. "This just keeps gettin' better, doesn't it?" Ash reached out and took my hand in her own. "Yeah, but this guy can't hide from me for long, Liz. Or science, for that matter. So let's recap. I'm gonna test the paper for prints and sunlight exposure. I'll perform a handwriting analysis and see if we can't build on those theories you came up with regarding your stalker's mental state. And lastly, I'll run the blood through all our databases and see if I get any hits. At the very least, I'll be able to tell you if this makeshift ink is male or female."

Her methodical game plan calmed me down just enough to restore my sanity. Although I'd never show it, I wanted to just bury myself in Flack's arms and cry until every ounce of fear left my body. "Thanks, chica." "Ain't no thang, girlfriend. I'll call ya tomorrow with the results." After Ash and I embraced, she took Don's palm and encased it with a firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Flack. Liz and I'll send ya some flowers after the Knicks lose next week." He shook his head, laughing. "You're almost as bad as that one," he said, pointing to me. "All talk." "Get outta my lab," she ordered with a smile. "Damn New Yorkers."

Flack and I turned and descended the stairs once more, and after a wink & a nod to Mary we headed back out into the cold. After a few blocks of silence, Flack broke the still air with a puzzled tone in his voice. "How come we gotta wait until tomorrow for the results?" "Well, this ain't New York, D. We got a much smaller population than you guys down on the island, so that means less funding. And less dinero means the lab can only have a certain number of their instruments running at any given time. So for particular types of analysis, the techs collect all the tests that need to be run and do 'em in batches at the end of the day." He nodded in enlightened understanding. "Huh." "Plus, a couple years back there were some huge sample processing mistakes. Whole lab's credibility was shot to hell. Cases had to be thrown out, supervisors were fired. . .the public started screaming about not feelin' safe."

"So," I continued, "they recently got permission to move into that new building you and I were just in. Only caveat was that they had to overhaul every single aspect of evidence collecting, processing and reporting systems. Took a while, but they hammered it out. What that means, though, is that each tiny piece of trace has to be logged and examined according to very exact procedures. So it takes a little longer."

"Makes sense," he responded. "I was just hopin' we'd be able to get some answers sooner. Y'know, so that you might be able to sleep okay tonight." I reached up and squeezed his shoulder, silently smiling my thanks for his concern. We walked a few more blocks before reaching North Station and getting back on the Green Line. A few stops later at Park Street, we joined the crowds heading home from Saturday work shifts and waited for the Red Line. As we fell in step with the throngs, I jammed my good hand into the pocket of my grey wool coat and stared at the ground. The deep red stripes painted on the walkway wall tiles reminded me too much of the angry scrawls of blood on the note I had received not two hours before. I was frightened, but determined to maintain my composure. _You've been through worse, Lizzie Lynn._

Once we were on the train and chugging across the Charles River, I was able to relax a little bit. Not too many rainbow-colored seats of the subway car were occupied, and so after a while I turned to my companion and queried, "So how's the CSI crew? Anybody get into trouble since New Year's?" I'd taken Casey down to visit Flack and Sam in December, and we'd rung in 2010 NYC-style for the first time in our lives. Case was a bit nervous about the crowds at first, shaking and grabbing onto my arm. However, after realizing that we were safely surrounded by good cops, she joined me in looking up at the darkened sky as we watched the brightly illuminated ball of lights drop to signify the birth of a new year. Something about the brisk air stinging my cheeks as I looked into the shining eyes of my friends made me believe that 2010 would be different. That the ache of losing Jess would subside somewhat as we all kept pressing on in her name.

Flack gave my question a bit of thought, then went through the whole gang by listing them one at a time on his long fingers. "Well, Mac and Stell are still dancin' around each other as always," he began. "I swear, one of these days I'm just gonna throw those two in a room and lock the door until they figure it out. And, speakin' of couples, Kendall finally just jumped Adam after work one night instead of waitin' for him to ask her out. So they're _definitely_ havin' fun."

"Kendall's so bloody smart it's scary," I piped in. "Those two definitely deserve each other, though. Geek love's a beautiful thing." "Ha! For sure. Lessee. . .oh, yeah! Lucy took her first steps just last week. She'd been standin' up and cruisin' along the couch for a long time, y'know?" Here he pantomimed the littlest Messer clutching at a sofa's pillows. "But I guess Danny was on the floor with her the other day, a couple feet away from where Linds was sittin'. So Lucy says 'mama!' and takes the few steps over to the chair with a big grin on her little face. Danno called me a few minutes later, rehashed the whole thing at least three times." "Wow! That's fantastic! They're gonna be chasin' her around the house in no time. So how are the proud parents?" I asked. "Is Lindsay's shoulder any better?" Flack frowned and shook his head. "It isn't any better than when you were there. She's doin' rehab exercises every day, but I guess there's a lot of nerve damage that just isn't healin' right for some reason. I mean, she can do all the stuff she needs to, like pick Lucy up and examine evidence and all that, but if she doesn't pace herself she ends up bein' in a helluva lot of pain at the end of the day."

"And Danny?"

Here Flack grinned. "I've never seen him better. He just loves bein' a dad. We took Lucy to her first Giants game back in January. Another guy was sittin' next to us with a little boy on his lap—well, the kid reaches out to touch Lucy and Danno yanks her out of the way, givin' the dad a 'back the fuck up' kinda look. Classic."

"Man, that's just a preview. Imagine what he's gonna do the first time she goes on a date. How 'bout Hawkes? And Sid?"

"Hawkes is goin' to some fancy conference in D.C. to present a paper to a bunch of doctors. Obama's gonna be there and everything."

"Ooh, what paper? Is he presenting his research on Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome? Or the treatise he wrote regarding aneuploid cells?"

Don gave me a look that was somewhere between disgust and amusement. "Lizzie, you know I don't ask Doc any questions about his work. DNA and RNA are as far as I go in the crazy-ass alphabet soup of his world."

"Y'know, Don Flack, you're a lot smarter than you want people to think. But all right, you go ahead and play dumb. How's my favorite quirky medical examiner?"

"Well, he hasn't gotten divorced again since you left, so I think everything's cool."

I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes and let the smiling faces of the CSI team float through my troubled mind. Knowing they were all safe, happy and relatively healthy helped to relax the icy fingers of dread that were curled around my heart.

Flack and I got off the T at the Central stop and began the walk towards my house. The streets were relatively quiet, enveloped in those anticipatory interim hours between the close of the work day and the beginning of Harvard's nightlife. Central Square's sidewalk cobblestones announced our presence with a steady _click-clack_ as we ignored the "don't walk" signs and cut a southwesterly path across the kingdom of the Crimson kids.

Eventually, we reached the slightly tree-shaded block of Lawrence Street. The fields and basketball courts of adjacent Dana Park were only barely visible beneath a slight dusting of snow, but I still saw Flack eye the two hoops from across the street. I elbowed him in the ribs and quipped, "You thinking of tossin' a few airballs later?" "Listen to you, talkin' trash with one good arm. Whatcha gonna do, sit there and throw hook shots while I'm rainin' threes?" "If I did, I'd make more of 'em than you ever do." He smiled and sniffed a little, his voice changing for a moment. "You sound like Jess," he murmured. "She was the hoops smack-talk queen of 'em all." I didn't quite know how to respond to that, so I just nodded and said, "She was the best at a lot of things." _Like loving you_, I thought_._ We soon reached my little white house with maroon trim, and carefully walked up the icy steps of 14 Lawrence. Flack had to help me open the front door due to my one-armed condition, which I allowed him to do without too much fuss.

Once inside, Don also had to ease my coat off my injured arm, which hurt more than I expected. I tried not to cry out, but a small audible grunt managed to escape as my shoulder was wrenched backward. "You okay?!" "Yeah, D, I'm cool. Just a little tweak." Flack bent towards me to inspect my shoulder, and as he did so I had to look away so as not to get hopelessly lost in his clear blue eyes. "It's, uh—it's okay, Don," I stammered. "I'll just down a couple of the pills I got from the hospital. Let's get you settled." Before his beautifully contoured mouth could argue, I turned away my flushed face and started up the hardwood stairs. Once Flack had made it to the top, I showed him into the guest room. He placed his bag on the ledge of the large bay window overlooking the park, rubbed his neck and then sat on the bed, exhaling strongly. "Thanks for havin' me here, Liz. I think this is just what I needed this weekend."

I smiled, happy that he could let his guard down. "No problem. You need anything? Toothbrush? Hair gel? Replacement for Lundqvist?" "I'm gonna ignore that last wisecrack in the spirit of relaxin'," he said, giving me a stern look. "And I'm good on bathroom stuff, thanks." "Okay. Just lemme know. I'm gonna put a few things away and then go make dinner." He crossed his arms and said, gesturing to my shoulder, "Like hell you are." "Don, it's fine," I insisted. "You're my guest and I want to make sure you're treated as such." "Lizzie, if you think I'm gonna sit here and let your stubborn wounded ass try to make dinner with one good arm, you're full of shit. You'd prob'ly cut yourself and bleed all over everything anyway. _I'm _takin' care of food. Period."

"All right, all right," I acquiesced. "Geez. I try to show a guy a good time and this is what I get. . . ." I broke off, grinning. "Go get yourself a drink, Doc," he ordered. "I'll be down in a few." I obeyed, but only partially. Instead of going back downstairs, I headed down the hall to my own room, stepped inside and shut the door. Each night I escaped to this quiet sanctuary, away from the pain the world had inflicted upon me and my family over the years. Decorated in various permutations of green and white, my bedroom became a soft forest glen as I pulled open the blinds to let in the scant daylight still left in the sky. This produced an immediate reaction from the small swatch of black that had been dozing peacefully on my bed—Jack sat up from his favorite pillow and glared at me as only a spoiled cat can do. As a peace offering, I took a seat on the Tempur-Pedic mattress and patted his head in silence for bit. "I'm sorry, little one," I said finally. "I'm all kinds of goofed up with Flack here. I just don't know how much longer I can pretend like I'm not in love with him. It's tearin' me up inside." My ever-faithful cat stood up, stretched, put his paws on my shoulder and gave my face a lick. And they say cats don't care.

Kissing Jack between his ears, I kicked my shoes off, shook my hair out and stood up from the bed. I steeled myself internally, drawing a deep breath into my lungs and exhaling with confidence. I yanked the door open and made my way down the hall, then descended the stairs. Flack was standing over the sink as I walked into the kitchen, scrubbing potatoes with his large veined hands. He'd taken off his blue sweater to reveal a plain white t-shirt, and I could see his strong forearms flexing as he pushed his fingers over the dirt-laden potato skins. Hearing my footsteps on the hardwood, Don turned around and flashed me a grin. "You ready for the best soup of your life, Lizzie? It's my mom's recipe." "Sounds good to me. I haven't seen you cook in a while, man. You sure you're the real Don Flack?" He pulled his right hand from under the faucet and flicked some water in my direction. "I will have you know, _Ginger_, that every member of the Flack family is an excellent cook. I just don't always choose to use my skills on a daily basis."

"And how is the Flack family holdin' up these days?" "Not bad. Parents are good—Ma's tryin' to kick the ol' man off the couch and get him to travel more. Latest pitch is for Ireland." Here he imitated his mom's rich alto voice, Queens accent and all: "'Think of all the Guinness, Donald!'" I laughed at the accuracy of his impression. "It's hard to get Dad away from his cop shows, though. Mom may hafta just go on her own. Brian's doin' well. I forgot to tell ya, Carrie's pregnant again, so Sam and I are gonna have another niece or nephew pretty soon here."

"Nice! Give my congratulations to the two of them. How's Sam?" Truth be told, I was more interested in her well-being than any of his other family members, but was trying not to show it. He put down the potato and turned to face me, sighing and pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. "I think she's makin' progress overall. You saw her at New Year's, so you know she was actually doin' pretty well. She kinda fell off the wagon for a bit, though. Actually, it wasn't too long after you and Casey went home—her dickhead boyfriend broke up with her and she went on a week-long binge. I stopped by her apartment one night and found her passed out on the floor. But no huge problems since then."

"Is she still seeing her therapist?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I take her on Tuesdays so I know she's goin' at least once a week. I feel for her, y'know? S'not easy to open up to a stranger when you been raised the way we were. And not everybody gets shrink services for free." He gave me a lopsided closed-mouth smile, and I had to press my suddenly weak knees into the island's base to keep them from giving way. "Enjoy it while you can, D. I start charging after five years of friendship. Seriously, though, I'm glad she's back on the straight path again. I know it's been a long climb out of a deep hole for her, but it sounds like she's doin' what she needs to do to get better. Just make sure you tell her that every now and then. And tell her she can call me if she needs anything, okay?"

"Got it, Doc." He saluted and turned back to the potatoes. I snatched a wine glass out of one of the island's stemware cupboards and filled it with Cabernet Sauvignon. "You want a glass?" I asked my companion. "Nah, I'm good. Maybe with dinner." I wanted to ask where he was at with alcohol these days, but hadn't figured out a good way to do it. He'd had a beer or two around New Year's, but who knew what he'd been drinking in his spare time? It may have been ten months, but I still remembered the anger in his eyes when I'd tried to suggest that he watch his intake in the days following Jess' death. Quite ironic for a therapist, not knowing how to broach a subject. "Let me know if you need help with anything, k?" "I got it, Liz. You go watch your little bear cubs lose." I stuck my tongue out at my friend and then headed into the TV room to turn on the Bruins game.

Half an hour later, the Bruins were on top of the Canadiens 3-1 in the second period. I was having trouble maintaining my usual hockey-game intensity, though. My eyes kept glazing over as nightmarish thoughts of a man plotting my death seized my brain—and I was losing track of the puck as it became engulfed in the raw redness of my fear. Thankfully, Flack soon brought in two bowls of steaming, aromatic soup and placed one in front of me. "You're lucky we're havin' my mom's soup, Lizzie," he said, pointing to the TV. "I'd lose my appetite watchin' Timmy Thomas crash around like that otherwise." "I don't care what you say, Flack—stopping a puck is stopping a puck, no matter how it looks. Maybe King Henrik should take a page outta that book instead of his current manual." "Which is?" Flack arched his expressive eyebrows at me. "'How To Be A Sieve, In Three Easy Periods.'" "Maybe you don't deserve this dinner after all," he said, making like he was going to take my bowl back. "All right, all right. Truce. Thank you very much for bestowing the legendary Flack Family culinary skills upon me."

I sat back against the couch pillows and dug into the potato leek confection before me. It was not only fragrant and warm, but of the perfect consistency. Not so thin that it had any traces of water, but not thick enough to stick in your throat. Upon swallowing my first mouthful, I instantly felt comforted and at peace. "This is great, D," I said, enthusiastically. "Far finer than I ever could have made, even with two hands." He smiled, blushing a little. "Thanks. Glad ya like it." We ate in silence, letting the third period of the Bruins game provide background noise for a while. Montreal came back in the third period to tie the game at 3, but with two minutes left Chara took a shot from center ice and blew it past Halak for the win. I smiled, and pumped my fist a bit--which was nothing compared to my usual victory celebrations, but I didn't have the energy for much else.

I did have sufficient motivation for one thing, though. Turning the TV off and facing Flack, I cleared my throat and said, "Tell me something, D." "Yeah?" I looked up and stared him straight in the eyes. "How are you doing?" Confusion clouded his face like a sudden eclipse. "Like right now? I'm not cold, if that's what you mean." "Nice try, man. You know what I'm talking about. I know you came up here to get away from everything--and I think it's good that you're separating yourself from the city for a few days—but I'm curious about how you're doing with Jess being gone."

"Well, I told ya on the phone last night that I'm havin' problems sleeping, but other than that things are fine." I digested this little white lie, nodded, then continued: "I wish that were true." "What are you talkin' about, Liz? You don't believe me?!" That famous Irish temper was rearing its head, a tiger stirring to hunt after a long day's nap in the sun. I headed it off before it could escalate into a roar. "I believe that you want everything to be fine, and I'm glad for that. For a while there after Jess died I didn't know if you were gonna ever be your old self again. I'm so happy to have my friend back. . .I can't even tell you how much. But these" (and here I gently touched each one of a series of jagged red scars on his hands) "weren't there when I was down for New Year's. Please tell me what happened."

Flack let out the deepest sigh I'd ever heard. It seemed as though the rushing winds of almost a year's worth of grief had been sucked into his lungs and then blown back out—along with traces of disappointment and self-loathing. He scrunched his forehead and lips into frustrated lines and then finally relaxed. "Can't put anything past you, huh?" I shook my head sadly. "Not when it comes to you being in pain."

"Okay. Ya got me. It was a little more than a month ago—February 8th, if you wanna get technical."

"Jess' birthday."

"Yeah. Good memory. Anyway, lots of people came over to celebrate that night. Family, friends, the CSI guys—we had a good time just talkin' about her, sharin' stories and lookin' at pictures, stuff like that. I thought I was fine. I mean, there were a few tough moments when I was showin' off some photos we took last spring, but no tears. No big deal, right?" He coughed and continued, twirling his soup spoon between his fingers as he spoke.

"So everybody goes home, and I start cleanin' up. I was gonna put away the pictures I was passin' around at the party, but for some reason I just take the whole stack and start flippin' through 'em one by one. I'm lookin' at this one picture I took of her last winter—we were walkin' home from a concert and Jess found this patch of snow not too far away from my apartment. She gets down on the ground and makes a snow angel, just for the hell of it, then sits up and gives me this huge gorgeous smile. There was snow in her hair and all over her back, but she didn't care. She just looked so damn happy. Good thing I got that shot off, too, 'cause she threw a snowball at me right after I took it."

His voice wavered, but he managed to keep from crying. "So I'm sittin' there in the kitchen lookin' at her face and I decide that to get through the rest of the picture stack, I'm gonna need a little liquid courage." I winced upon hearing this. "Messer had brought a bottle of vodka to the party that we hadn't even opened, so I break it out and pour myself a shot. I keep goin' through the photos, and the shots are turnin' into straight drinks from the bottle. Eventually, I get down to the end of the vodka and the pictures, and I'm pretty drunk at this point."

"I get to the last picture in the stack, and it's her at the top of the Statue of Liberty. We took a day around the city last April and just pretended like we were a coupla tourists. Forgot about bein' cops for a few hours. Anyway, she's got her arms spread out in the picture and you can see the tattoo on her left wrist. And. . .I don't know what happened in me after seein' those little flowers, but all of a sudden, I'm back in the hospital touchin' her—her hand. Just strokin' it over and over again 'cause I don't know how to say goodbye. And all the feelings about how unfair the whole damn thing is, that I couldn't do anything about her dyin'--they all came back, right in that one second. I just got so mad, Lizzie. So fucking mad!"

"So what did you do?"

"Started throwin' things. First the vodka bottle, then all the wine glasses sittin' by the sink, then the pictures on the wall. . .it's just this big blur of glass. Glass and booze and screamin'—I know I was yellin' at the top of my lungs but I couldn't even tell ya what I said. I musta worn myself out eventually, 'cause I woke up the next morning with blood all over my hands and an apartment that looked like a war zone."

I was quiet for a moment, making sure he was finished with his tale of rage. "Wow. I'm glad you made it out alive. Did you tell anybody about what happened?"

"Nah. Didn't really know who to talk to, y'know? Danno's busy with Lindsay and the baby, Sam's got her own problems—and I didn't want to tell you 'cause I figured you'd just tell me to go see a shrink."

He gave me a guilty little smile at this, and I grinned back. "Well, thank you for telling me now. I promise it'll stay between the two of us."

"I know it sounds bad, Liz. I do. It was an awful night. But I haven't had much to drink since then and I've been feelin' okay. Not great, but nothin' like that night."

"That's good to hear."

He shifted in his seat and looked at me somewhat tentatively. "Uh, so whaddya think? Should I go get my head checked out?"

I shifted into clinical mode for a moment. "Hm. It sounds like it was an isolated episode of anger, but it definitely had an easily identifiable trigger. You don't necessarily need to see a therapist, but it would be good to have a plan that you can follow in case you start feeling that same type of rage. Like for example, it seems as though any active mourning of Jess should be done away from alcohol, and preferably with another person. Perhaps you could spend some more time with her father or brothers as a way to connect with her--or if you can, visit her gravesite so that you're out in public instead of just sitting and looking at pictures by yourself. I mean, there's things that you two shared that no one else will be able to understand (or take away from you), but I think too much isolated grieving could be dangerous for you."

He nodded. "I think I understood enough of that to get the point."

"And please don't forget that you can always call me. Any time, okay?"

"Thanks, Lizzie."

Flack picked at a few loose threads on the arm of the couch as we fell silent again. Then he looked at me and said, "So how 'bout you? You doin' okay after everything that's gone down in the last coupla days?"

I made the mistake of pausing for an extended period of time before finally spitting out a lie-laced, "Yeah, yeah! I'm good. I mean, it's nothing huge for a former cop, right? Definitely saw a fair share of weird shit while on my beat."

The twin crystal-blue rivers in his eyes pierced my tough front like a sword through armor. "You little hypocrite," he said, shaking his head at me. "You make me be straight with ya and then you gimme the worst piece of crap lie ever." I was about to protest, but he was having none of it. Instead, he reached over and put his hand on my knee, squeezing gently. "Tell me the truth, Lizzie. You've had an attempt on your life and a credible death threat land on your doorstep all in the last twenty-four hours. I don't need a shrink degree to know that that kinda stuff gets to people."

I was powerless to stop the rush of blood that colored my cheeks a brilliant scarlet. I managed to keep from tearing up at his heartfelt concern, but was moved nonetheless. Although I didn't dare share everything I was feeling, my scarred heart opened a tiny bit and let a few rays of emotion burst forth: "Okay. You win. I've just never been this close to death before, you know? I mean, I've been _near_ death way too much in the last ten years. . .Matty, PK, Mom, not to mention Jess—but it's never stared me directly in the face."

My voice strengthened as I walked back into familiar scientific territory: "And it makes sense that two brushes with death (the direct one being the suddenness of the knife attack and the indirect one the sinister nature of the note) would create a--"

"Liz." Flack interrupted my psychobabble with his contorted mouth and arched black eyebrows. "Forget about what's 'normal' or what other people go through when they're dealin' with stuff like this. I wanna know how you are."

"You're not gonna let me hide behind my medical journals, huh?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

I sighed, relenting. "I guess I've just been thinking about how much I love my life. Work, family, friends, sports—all of it. When we were at Fenway today I was thinkin' about my season tickets and how excited I am for Opening Day. . .I'm takin' Case and we're sitting right on the line where Bay hits most of his homers. The idea of someone taking all that away from me is really frightening."

I pressed on, hitting a deeper layer of my feelings. "Also, the attack and this threat both came because of something I did right when I was a cop. Something me and PK did together. So I'm pissed that somebody out there is trying to punish me for that. I--I try to be a strong woman, Flack. Sometimes too strong, as you know. But there's somebody out there who wants to fuck me up big time, and I'm scared that they're gonna win. That I'll turn into some frightened little girl who can't walk down the street by herself at night."

"Makes sense for you to feel all those things after the weekend you've had so far," Flack replied. "I know you're not gonna let this scumbag beat you down, though, whoever he is. I know you. You're too strong for that."

"Thanks. Doesn't exactly feel like it at the moment, though." I gestured to my sling with my free hand.

"Well, I'll tell ya what. Instead of sittin' around here waitin' for your girl Parker to call tomorrow, how 'bout we go over to PD and see what we can dig up on the guy who jumped you last night? That' way you can have some. . .uh, what do you head docs call it—agency. Yeah, you can have some _agency_ in the situation instead of just havin' stuff happen to you. Whaddya say?"

"Yeah, all right. Gotta make sure I don't trap myself in my own house. Good call on your part."

"Nice. I also wanna talk to the BPD guys about gettin' you some protection after I head home."

"Most of my boys are Bruins fans," I said, putting on a mock serious face. "You sure you'll be able to handle the stench? I mean, you almost tossed your cookies on Yawkey today. Can't be too careful with that delicate little New Yorker stomach of yours."

"I'll manage. C'mere." He scooted over on the couch and gingerly put his arm around my shoulders so as not to disturb the sling. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, okay? Anybody wants to mess with you, they're gonna have to get through me first."

"Thanks, D." I closed my eyes and just breathed in deeply for a moment. His scent was a mixture of a strong man's raw power and the gentility of the comfort and care he was providing, and I had never had such a strong urge to kiss him as in that moment. But I refused to come between him and the memories of his true love. So instead, I gripped his waist tightly for a few more seconds, stood up, and said, "Thanks for dinner, Flack. And for listening." I smiled at him and gave him a small peck on the cheek. "I think I'm gonna get into bed."

"Okay. I think I'll stay up for a bit. SportsCenter's callin' my name. I'll lock up, though. You go get some sleep."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. No problem."

"You need anything?"

"Naw, I'm cool. Get some rest."

I nodded, and turned to head upstairs when I heard, "Hey, Lizzie?"

I faced him once more, training my tired eyes on his own. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for gettin' me to talk about Jess. It's—uh, still hard to, um, believe she's really gone."

"I know, D. I'm so sorry you're having to go through this. I really appreciate your telling me about what happened to your hands. And no matter how shitty you may feel, you're doin' a great job with your grief. I know that wherever she is, she's really proud of the man and the cop you've become since she was taken from you."

His eyes began glistening, and so I quickly tried to lighten the air around us once again:

Just call me next time you're thinkin' about downing a bottle of vodka and goin' all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on your apartment, okay?"

Flack smiled through his welling tears and nodded. "Done. 'Night, Doc."

"Night, Detective."

I headed up the stairs and commenced with getting ready for bed. Ten minutes later, burrowed into my green flannel sheets with Jack by my side, I turned on my stomach and prepared for sleep. The last thought I had before drifting away was of how safe I felt knowing that Flack was downstairs, watching over my house.

And watching over me.


	3. Day 3

Day 3

Morning came to the city of neighborhoods again, and as I took Sunday's air into my lungs a brief halo of calm surrounded my body. Within a matter of breaths, though, the fear from the previous two days clawed its way back in through my every pore. I turned to reach for some kitty therapy, but instead of my favorite feline a dimpled pillow greeted my outstretched hand. I suddenly felt very small and alone. However, my discomfort flitted away immediately as I remembered who was sleeping just down the hall. Unable to rest any longer, I climbed out of bed, put on my old Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and walked to the window.

A childlike smile spread across my face upon pulling up the blinds. While some Bostonians hate the snow, I've always loved it—and this morning in March was no exception. The swings of Dana Park's playground were covered in undisturbed accumulations of snowflakes, which of course made me want to run across the street and send the perfectly piled mounds scattering into the freezing air.

I turned away from the window and gingerly began testing my left arm's range of motion. The Urgent Care tech at Mass General had said I could try losing the sling after a couple days, and I hoped I'd be able to leave the damn thing at home today. As I twisted my shoulder in a few different directions, though, shooting waves of pain inflicted imaginary stab wounds in my muscles and bones. I realized that this sling-free plan just wasn't gonna happen. "Fuck," I whispered to myself. "One more day of lookin' like a jackass." Despite my resignation, I still didn't feel like dealing with the full contraption for the morning--so I just took a pair of tights and immobilized the joint as best I could. Thank you, Anatomy 101.

After locating a pair of red boyshorts (and yes, I'll admit, fixing my hair), I opened the door to my room and quietly stepped into the hall. _Flack might still be sleeping, for all I know. He always did like lazy Sunday mornings. _I made my way towards the guest room and saw that the door was partially open. I was about to tap lightly and announce my presence when I heard a few grunts and some heavy breathing from inside. "Umph! Two! Umph! Three!"

Peering in through the gap between the door and the frame, I saw Flack shirtless in the midst of a set of push-ups. I heard a voice inside telling me that I should just shove off and let him finish, but I couldn't tear myself away from the sight of his body. I hadn't seen his bare back for three years now, and I was pleased to find it just as I remembered—olive-colored and taut. His muscles, on the other hand, were a different story. Although he'd always been well-built, instead of just an overall toned look Flack now sported triceps that looked like they'd been carved out with a chisel. His shoulders were so well-defined that I could practically feel my fingernails begging me to dig them into his skin. And the sight of that solitary vein running over his long and lean left biceps was almost enough to make me lose it right there in the hallway.

Suddenly, I heard a small meow, and Jack emerged from the guest room, nudging the door from cracked to gaping with his little black head. The push-ups stopped, and Flack rose from the carpeted floor, turning around to follow the sound of the cat. "Where ya goin, pal—oh, hey Lizzie! How'd ya sleep?"

It's not often that I'm rendered speechless, but Flack's cut chest, arms and abs promptly teamed up to steal every word of the English language right out of my head. The dark hair on his torso highlighted the deep lines of everything from his pecs down to his obliques, and I was a goner as a result. If not for Jack, I probably would've stood there staring for the rest of the day. My cat saved my butt, though, and bit me just enough on the ankle to snap me out of my trance.

"Ow! Um, morning, Flack. Startin' your day off right, huh?" He was in a good mood, and laughed at me. "What are you, a Raisin Bran commercial? 'Startin' your day off right.' Classic." He wiped the sweat off his brow with a dirty t-shirt and sat on the bed. By this time I'd recovered sufficiently enough to speak like an intelligent human being, and leaned up against the doorway, saying, "I'm just impressed. You do that every morning?" _Oh please, oh please, oh please!, _I thought. Sadly, he shook his head. "Nah, I wish. Just woke up feelin' good, though, so I thought I'd bust a few out. That mattress is nice. You change it since the last time I was here?"

I shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair, blushing a bit. "No, D, it's—um, it's always been the same. You just didn't sleep in that bed last time you were here." He dropped his head towards the t-shirt in his hands and laughed a little bit. "Ha! Right. Of course not." I tried not to look hurt, but I was reeling a bit at the thought that he'd forgotten about the times we shared together. I knew I hadn't even meant half as much to him as Jess did, but I always hoped I'd made some kind of impression. He brought his sea mist-colored eyes up to meet my own once more, saying, "It's really been three years since I was up here, huh?"

I nodded. "Life's been busy for both of us." "Yeah, but that's a shitty excuse. You came down for Jess in May and then again for New Year's. You're beatin' me two-zip, Ryder. I promise I'll try to get outta the city more often. 'Specially if you need a bodyguard anytime soon."

Internally I smiled at the idea of Flack as my shadow, decked out in a long wool coat and aviators. Outwardly, though, I pulled a skeptical face and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "Keep Don Flack, king of the NYPD away from New York City? I'd probably get hate mail from all your favorite thugs askin' when you were gonna come back and give 'em a hard time."

"More like you'd get all my damn casefiles from the chief. S'been a brutal winter for the 1-2. We got one bad cold snap first week of February, and I swear to God next day people started knockin' each other off one after the other. Like dominos or somethin'."

"Freezing people are rarely happy people," I said, nodding.

He stifled a laugh and smiled at me. "They put that in one of your shrink textbooks, Ryder? What'd they call it, 'The Effects of Significantly Lower Temperatures on the Psyche of Urban-Area Dwellers'?"

Finding nothing in the hallway to throw at Flack, I stepped into the room, grabbed a sweatshirt sitting on the floor and whacked my friend upside the head with it. "Ow! Jeez, Lizzie—can't take a joke, can ya?"

I sniffed haughtily and sat next to Don on the bed. "Actually, Detective Flack, due to the coping mechanisms that were necessary for me to endure the parental tension that permeated my childhood, I can take a joke--in addition to making them frequently. Humor helps me to deflect anything that could potentially upset my life, and gives me the illusion of control." The smile on his face eroded very slowly as I continued my faux lecture. "Furthermore, I tend to surround myself with others who have a keenly developed sense of humor so as to always have help in distracting from the difficult moments that comprise my personal history. These friends, although effective in lightening moods, do occasionally make their allegiances to obnoxious New York sports teams and number of said teams' world championships very obvious on a regular basis. Causing anyone of a saner (read: Boston fan) persuasion to feel the urge to vomit."

I kept up my straight face for a few seconds after finishing the diatribe until I had committed Flack's completely bewildered face to memory. Then I elbowed him in the side and smiled. "That, my friend," I said, smugly, "was in my shrink textbooks." Don raised his eyebrows and whistled, holding up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, Freud. You win. You out-syllabled me." I laughed, and looking back into the hallway gestured to Jack, who was licking his right front paw contentedly. "So, you made a friend last night, huh?"

Flack nodded and reached up to scratch his neck, inadvertently flexing his right bicep as a result. I felt my stomach flip a little bit, and almost wished he'd put on a shirt so I could focus on the conversation. Almost. "Yeah—little guy started scratchin' at the door around two or so, so I opened the door 'cause I thought he might be hungry or somethin'. But he just came runnin' in here, jumped on the bed and curled up right on the pillow."

I sucked in a bit of breath and apologized. "Aw, I'm sorry about that. He didn't make you sick or anything, did he?" "Nah, not at all. Same as last time I was here—guess he's the one cat I can stand."

"So what's your deal with cats anyway? You always hated 'em?"

He paused and thought about it for a second. "Actually, no, now that I think about it. I wasn't allergic when I was a kid. First time I had problems with 'em was back at the police academy. I was datin' this girl that had the meanest damn tabby cat ever. I mean, this thing left hair all over my clothes, swiped at my head when I was tryin' to sleep—fuckin' animal even jumped on my back once when I was takin' a leak. Scratched me from my shoulders all the way down to my ass. Y'know, I think there's still a little scar right at the base of my spine where she dug in at the last second."

"Yeah, there is," I confirmed, not needing to look. I realized what I'd said, blushed and said, "Um, there used to be, anyway." I took a quick glance behind him and located the small white scratch just above his warm-ups, resisting the urge to touch it. "Yep, still there. I guess I never asked where it came from."

Before things could get too awkward, I got up from the bed and queried, "So, you hungry?"

He looked at me with curiosity for what seemed like forever in that moment. So many things had gone unsaid between us for so long now. Just when I thought I would crack under his gaze, he snapped out of it and nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good," he said. "You Bostonians got anything to eat besides _chow-dah_ around here?" Safely back in the realm of teasing humor, I relaxed a bit. "Maybe. Depends on the restaurant. They don't all let New Yorkers in, ya know."

He flung me a skeptical glance. "Oh, really? And just how do they know who's a New Yorker?"

He'd made it way too easy for me. I folded my arms across Jimi's guitar and replied, sweetly, "It's the smell. Subway steel dust, Yankee Stadium sweat, Grand Central pushin' and shovin'—any self-respecting food joint owner can pick up a whiff of that a block away. But hey, you'll be with me, so no worries."

"Yeah, I was really shakin' with fear over here."

"So, you want breakfast or lunch?"

Flack looked at the clock sitting across the room and squinted a little bit. I followed his gaze and said, "It says 10:30, grandpa. You gotta get your eyes checked."

He looked at me and glared. "I can still spot a smartass no problem, so they can't be that screwed." Don touched a hand to his sculpted stomach, seemingly getting its opinion about what kind of food it wanted. "Let's get some lunch," he said. "I'm feelin' a sandwich."

"Lunch it is, D. I'm gonna take you straight to the best in Cambridge."

"Oh yeah? Whadda they got, silver toothpicks holdin' the sandwiches together? I bet they match the spoons hangin' outta the mouths of those spoiled Harvard brats."

I cocked one of my hips out to the side, giving him an unimpressed look. "You done there, sport?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Good. I'll see ya downstairs whenever you're ready. Enjoy your shower!" I made my way back down the hall, smiling as I heard the sounds of surprised laughter.

Thirty minutes later, Flack and I were making our way through the still calm of a wintry Sunday morning. The crisp air could almost be heard crackling with intensity as it waited for those perfect conditions to create the next blizzard. We walked in silence, both appreciating the effect a simple blanket of snow can have on the world. It was as though the earth itself had been reset—returned to an ancient state in which the possibilities are endless. Nothing seems unattainable or out of reach. And no one you love has been taken from you.

I thought of Jess as Flack and I continued our northeasterly journey—called up memories of her many smiles in my mind. Impish, confident, smug, wary. . .she had a perfectly individual parting of her lips to match all those emotions and many more. I tried to picture her face as Flack had described it when relating the story of last Christmas' snow angel, but then stopped. Despite my own need for an infusion of Jess' strong spirit, I wanted the memory of that night to belong solely to Flack. _I miss you, girlfriend. _I thought. _But I know he misses you so much more. _

After slogging our way through some surprisingly thick snowdrifts, the Doctor and the Detective made it to the corner of Prospect and Cambridge to find the All Star Sandwich Bar ready and waiting to welcome us in. I looked around upon stepping into the brightly painted interior and was surprised at the lack of patrons. Sunday afternoon lunch traffic generally stuffed this place fuller than Fenway in October. A well-built young man with dark hair came out to greet us, and upon seeing my face opened his arms wide. "Hey! Doctor Liz! Haven't seen ya in a while. How are you?" "Good, man, I'm good. Where's all your customers? You create some new monstrosity that put all the Crimson kids in food comas?"

Johnny laughed and shrugged. "Nah, I guess they just couldn't hack it in the snow. Prob'ly sleepin' off last night's parties on their thousand thread count sheets." Flack poked me in the ribs and gave me an "I told ya so" look. I rolled my eyes and said, "Hey, Johnny, this is my buddy Don Flack. He's up from New York for a few days." Johnny shook Flack's hand, but as he did so said, "New Yorker, huh? That's weird." Flack looked a little defensive. "What's so weird about it?" "Well, I didn't smell anything before you guys got in here. Snow must be throwin' me off my game." I coughed/laughed hard enough to squeeze out a few tears, and when I was finished it was my turn to give Flack a vindicated look.

Flack retracted his hand from Johnny's, smiled and said, "Nah, I think it's that sorry-ass Sox flag out there. You get yourself a new set of colors, I'm sure everything'll go back to normal. You _might_ even be able to make it through the first round of the playoffs this year."

Johnny laughed and slapped Flack on the back. "Good man, Flack. Glad ya can take a joke or two. Where do you guys wanna sit, Liz?"

"Let's go by the window," I said, feeling like a little kid. "I wanna be able to see if it starts snowin' again."

"You got it, Doc." Johnny led us to a window table for two and, once he'd equipped us with menus, disappeared into the back.

Once our host had left, Flack snorted and shook his head. "Funny guy."

"Yeah, he's cool. Treats his customers good and his employees even better. He and his brother own the place. I've been comin' here for years."

"I can tell. You the friendly neighborhood shrink around here or what?"

I shrugged. "I started comin' in after my night classes at Harvard 'cause they're open 'til 9 during the week. Got to talking with Johnny and Kosta and we got to know each other pretty well. When I finally got my degree, I wanted to say thank you for all the food and support, so I made a donation to the restaurant and gave 'em a stack of my business cards—y'know, so they could send people who needed a few free therapy sessions my way."

Flack raised his eyebrows. "Wow, Lizzie, I'm impressed. You're a real Bob Kraft, aren't ya?" His crack about the Patriots' philanthropic owner prompted me to reach across the table and cuff him across his slightly gelled hair. "I happen to think I'm much better-looking than Bobby, thank you very much." "Oh, I dunno. . .those silver-haired sixty-somethins are pretty hot." "Thanks, smartass. Seriously, though, I was happy to be able to help out. And it was nothin' compared to what the guys did for me in return—they actually named a sandwich after me!"

"No kiddin'! Must have a lot of cheese in it." "Psssht. If they made a Flack sandwich, it'd be a best-seller—'cause like you, people wouldn't be able to keep their damn mouths shut about it. Check it out." I stretched my free arm across the table once more and pointed to the lower left-hand corner of his menu. "'The Doctor's Order'," he read, grinning. "'Smoked turkey and roast beef on Irish-style brown bread, with spicy Dijon mustard, one big slice of tomato and lettuce, plus a Big Pickle. Eat two and call us in the morning!' That's awesome. I gotta say, though, these guys should be sued for false advertising. This place I used to go to in Queens as a kid—they got the biggest pickles ever, hands-down. "

I laughed at his cockiness. "You haven't even seen theirs, D." "I don't have to. I just know." A mischievous thought crossed my mind. It could have dangerous ramifications, but I couldn't just let him sit there and rag on my Cambridge crew like that. I'd need Johnny's help, but I figured I could pull it off. "You damn New Yorkers," I said, inserting a bit of irritation in my voice. "You think you got the best of everything. Well, I tell ya what, Detective—I don't think you can eat one of All Star's Big Pickles."

Flack was constitutionally incapable of shrinking away from a challenge, especially when it involved showing up a Bostonian. And even more so when that Bostonian was me. "Oh yeah? I'll step to that, Ryder. What do I get if I win?" _Here goes nothing, _I thought. "If you eat a whole sandwich plus an entire Big Pickle, I'll go buy a Knicks jersey and wear it to the game with Ash next week."

Don's eyes widened and a smirk shifted his lips to the left side of his face. "All right. You gotta take pictures for proof though. So what happens if I can't polish off their sorry-ass excuse of a cucumber?" "Oh, I don't need anything," I smiled, sweetly. "You lookin' like an ass is a good enough prize for me."

Our hands met in the middle of the table. "It's a bet," I said. "So, you doin' the Ruben or what?"

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie," he said, shaking his head and clucking his tongue at me. "There is no way that sandwich could ever live up to my mother's corned beef. Eatin' that would be like wearin' a Sox hat in church." "Y'know, for some people, bein' a Sox fan is a religious experience." I didn't let him respond to this, but pressed on instead. "So, what's the verdict then?"

"You don't really think I'd come here and not try the sandwich named after my host, do ya?" "Goin' for the Doctor, huh? I bet you'll like the bread. S' tasty stuff."

"Whatcha gettin'?" I didn't hesitate. "The Beef on Weck. I'm kinda cold, but I don't want soup."

Just then, Johnny returned to the table, pad and pen at the ready. "So, what's it gonna be, Doc? The usual?" "Nah, no tuna melt today. I want the Beef on Weck, thin sliced." "You got it. How 'bout you, Flack?" Don leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I'm gonna go with The Doctor's Orders. See if it's as spicy as she is." "Ok. You want the pickle with that?" "Definitely." "I've been tryin' to warn him, Johnny—he says it's got nothin' on some deli down in New York." As Flack turned his face back towards my friend, I caught Johnny's eye and winked—a gesture that I hoped would be interpreted correctly.

Thankfully, Johnny tapped the ordering pad with his pen and mused, "Oh, I don't know, Liz. I mean, it ain't anything to laugh at, but it's prob'ly not the biggest I've ever seen." I pretended to be shocked. "What?! Geez, man! I try to stick up for your fine establishment and this is what I get? Damn, you can't trust anyone these days." "Just tellin' the truth, Doc. I'll be back with your grub soon." I continued to shake my head for effect before sitting back in my chair and glancing over at Flack. He had a huge boyish smile on his face and said, "Well, I guess you better start sizin' out those Knicks jerseys, Ryder. I'm thinkin' a Robinson jersey might look nice on you—y'know, him bein' a Seattle guy and all."

"Thanks, pal," I said, sarcastically. "I'm sure Mom would've appreciated the shout-out."

His face relaxed for a moment, and his voice softened. He reached across the table and placed his hand over my own. "You still doin' okay with her bein' gone?" I was somewhat taken aback by the question. His capacity for compassion in the wake of his own grief was stunning. I looked down at my lap for a moment, a few tears filling the corners of my eyes. "Yeah, I'm doin' all right. It's been two years since she died, but, um, sometimes it still stings. It kinda depends on what time of year it is. Winter is always rough since she died in October. I try to spend more time with Case around then as a result. S'part of why I insisted that we go down to NYC for New Year's—get away from everything for a little while. It was a helluva time, Flack. Thanks again for having us."

"Anytime." He pulled his hand from mine and covered his mouth for a moment. Then he picked up his fork and stared at it for a few seconds before speaking again. "Yeah, I'm not lookin' forward to May, that's for damn sure. You know from experience how big of a deal anniversaries are in the badge world. What I can't figure out is which way to go that day."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, do I sack up and go back to the café? Maybe walk the funeral route and remember all the blues standin' there for her? Or do I just visit her for a while and leave it at that? I don't wanna be afraid of what happened, 'cause she deserves better than that—but I dunno. I guess we'll see."

I nodded. "Just wake up each day of that weekend and see how you feel. It's not like you have anything to prove. It's different for you as compared to someone else, like Messer or a uni from the 1-2—because you remember her and grieve for her every day. I think you should do whatever helps you honor her memory without compromising your own well-being. We don't want another glass bath on your hands. And hey, if you want me to come down for a couple days that week, lemme know."

He gave me a single nod and smiled. "Thanks."

Just then, Johnny appeared at the head of the table with lunch. _This is gonna be good, _I thought. "All right, here we go," Johnny said. "Beef on Weck for the good Dr. Ryder, and a Doctor's Orders for the Manhattan Man."

"Queens," said Flack. "Aw, my mistake, Flack," said Johnny, setting two plates down in front of Don. "Don't matter what borough you're from, though—you ain't gonna finish all that." Flack did his best not to gape at what had been placed before him, but I saw him swallow nervously. As he should have. The All Star Sandwich Bar's Big Pickle is a behemoth. Nine inches long and two inches wide, the thing is a gigantic, delicious pile of salt that warrants its own plate. "Thanks, man," I said to Johnny. All Star's star chef gave Flack a smug smile, said, "You got it, Liz," and walked away.

Painting my face with a bemused look of my own, I looked at Flack. "Y'know, if it's too big for you to handle, we can call off the bet. I won't think any less of ya." He had recovered nicely from his momentary panic and shot a glare right back at me. "Whatever, Ryder. You better get that credit card ready."

Flack started off well, polishing off half the sandwich and close to half of the pickle in about fifteen minutes or so. I sat back and enjoyed the show, taking my time with the warm sandwich filled with juicy roast beef. We didn't say much while eating, due to Flack's being in the zone of competition. He got the other half of his sandwich down just as I finished mine. Now came the fun part. As I leisurely picked at my fries, Flack got down to about a quarter of the pickle. The salt seemed to be getting to him, because he had been downing water at a pretty rapid rate. He glared at the green-skinned cruncher before him, and here I teased, "What're you waitin' for, Flack? It's not gonna turn back into a cucumber just 'cause you're tryin' to win the staring contest." Don ignored me, picking up the knife and fork and cutting off another slice. A disgusted look came over his strong facial features as he brought the pickle piece to his mouth—then he put the fork down and acquiesced. "All right, Ryder. You win. That's enough damn pickle for a lifetime."

I pumped my good hand in the air and whooped, but quickly became sympathetic. "Well, I gotta say, I'm glad you didn't stuff yourself just for the sake of winning a bet."

"Yeah, and I bet you're even happier that you don't have to drop 60 big ones on a Knicks jersey. Would you really have bought one if I'd eaten this whole thing?"

"Yep, a bet's a bet."

He leaned back in his chair and grunted, rubbing his stomach. "Umph. I feel like I'm gonna explode."

"Hey, how was the sandwich? Or were you just focusin' on the pickle?"

"Pretty good. You were right about that bread. Makes me wanna go back to Ireland."

"Not a bad idea. I think a vacation'd be good for ya."

"Yeah, we'll see. I still can't decide if workin's good or bad while I'm tryin' to get by without her here." He coughed and changed the subject. "So, you ready to head down to PD, check those files out?"

"I think so. You gonna be able to walk or do I need to roll ya out?"

He balled up his napkin and threw it at me. "Be nice to us fat guys, Lizzie. 'Specially when it's your fault that I got like this in the first place." I was going to say something about how he and the word fat didn't belong in the same sentence, but Johnny spared me from gushing by bringing our check. Flack didn't even make a move for it, which I congratulated him on. "Good. You're learning." "Are you kiddin' me? No way in hell I'd pay for all the food you goaded me into shovin' down my throat. I don't even think I could move my arm enough to reach for it anyway."

We said our goodbyes to Johnny, bundled up again and headed out into the snow. It took a few more minutes than normal for us to make our way to the Central T stop, but eventually we boarded a Red Line train and set off into the heart of the city. Every few minutes Flack would exhale strongly, pat his midsection and shake his head, muttering, "Never again, man. Never again." We switched from Red to Orange at Downtown Crossing, falling in step with snow-covered passengers who'd just come in from the cold. Perhaps to take his mind off his angry stomach, Flack turned to me after we were moving again and said, "Hey, so where was your beat when you were a uni? Back there in Rich Kid Square?"

"Don't make me hit ya in the stomach," I said. "Some of those young'ns are a pain in the ass, but there's a few decent ones too." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, unconvinced. "To answer your question, Cambridge actually has its own separate police department. As BPD grunts, PK and I were in the E-13. Jamaica Plain n' Roxbury—two of the toughest neighborhoods in the city. Lotsa graffiti and drugs, 'specially in the parks. Didn't matter to us, though. We still loved it. Tried to get to know as many people as we could. Lotta Latino folks in that area, so we both got to use our Spanish. . .it was pretty funny hearin' Pak-Man bust out some 'holas' with the muchachos in that thick accent of his."

By this time we'd reached the Green Street Station and left the subway. Mercifully, it was a pretty short westerly walk to the station. Just in the time that Flack and I had been on the subway, it had started snowing again. Hard. We passed the pole Radman had knocked me into on Friday night, and I spit on it in disgust. Flack looked at me and grinned. "I know you're mad at the pole, Lizzie, but hey—just think about what mighta happened if it hadn't a been there. You coulda cracked your hard head on the sidewalk or somethin'." I hadn't thought about that before, and decided not to do so now. I didn't need any more horrific visions haunting my mind. We walked on, and I pointed Flack to the left at the corner of Green and Washington. Upon seeing the red bricks of the precinct, he ran ahead and pulled open the door. "After you, One-Armed Woman." I smacked him in the stomach as I passed. "Why thank you, Shamu."

I led Flack up a few stairs and into the precinct's lobby. Bare lighting did its best to combat the darkness created by the snowflakes swirling outside, but patches of grey defiantly lingered in every corner. Giving a smile and a small salute to Jimmy at the front desk, I continued down the tiled hallway and smirked at the squeaking noise my boots were making on the floor. Flack stuck his hands in his pockets and swept his eyes all around as we walked, no doubt making mental comparisons to his beloved 1-2 back in Manhattan.

Soon we came to the central atrium of the precinct. The ceiling was much higher in this part of the building than the lobby, and was lined with brick arches that surrounded half-moon shaped windows. Rows of desks adorned with everything from Patriots pencil cups to family photos filled the room, but most of their corresponding officers were nowhere to be found. I turned to Flack and shrugged. "Slow day, I guess. Bein' a Sunday and all." Flack laughed and pretended to inspect his watch. "Yeah, it'll pick up soon, though. You Bostonians can't drive under normal circumstances, never mind in the snow." "Oh, yeah, and New Yorkers are the pinnacle of automotive abilities? You guys couldn't find a brake pedal if your lives depended on it."

Moretti and O'Connell chose that moment to come striding into the room from one of the precinct's back hallways. O'Connell broke into a short jog and stopped in front of me, smiling. "Hey, Liz! I thought I heard your smack-talkin' voice. How are ya?" He gestured to the sling. "Arm feelin' any better?"

I nodded. "Much better than the other night, that's for damn sure. But I still feel like a tool with this stupid thing." I shifted and gestured to Flack. "Guys, this is Detective Don Flack, NYPD. D, this is Paul O'Connell and Maurizio Moretti. They were the ones who helped me out with Radman on Friday." Strong handshakes were shared all around, and then three sets of arms crossed as my boys all sized each other up. Moretti spoke first, his dark eyes gleaming with confidence. "NYPD, huh? Whatcha doin' here? Bloomberg cut your salary again?" Flack raised his eyebrows and gave Maurizio a 'oh, so that's how it's gonna be' look. "Nah, man—I thought I'd come up here for a couple days, see the sights, try to figure out why you guys call this cute little town a city."

I considered letting them go on, but remembered that I was here on a mission. Stepping between the Irishman and the Italian, I lightly placed my fingertips on Flack's chest. "Whoa, whoa, boys. Cool it. You can kick the crap out of each other after we figure out who's tryin' to kill me." The brows of both unis furrowed as they shifted their gazes to me. O'Connell spoke, an angry edge in his voice. "What?! What happened?" "Yeah," Moretti said. "We tossed Radman's ass in jail the other night, so who's after ya?"

"That's what we're tryin' to figure out." Flack's speaking up drew curious looks from Moretti and O'Connell. "I came up yesterday afternoon and went to her office down in Brookline. Found a threatening note on the door but no other signs of disturbance. We took the letter over to the crime lab and gave it to Liz's buddy, Ashley Parker. She's sp'osed to get back to us today with a bunch of results."

"Parker, huh?" Moretti pursed his lips together and smiled. O'Connell rolled his eyes and smacked Maurizio in the shoulder. "Christ, Maurz. Quit thinkin' with your dick for a sec." Paul turned to me then, his green eyes the very picture of seriousness. "What'd the note say?" I appreciated being included in the conversation again. "Well, it was written in the format of a poem. Short, but to the point." I recited the note out loud for the boys and their eyes widened. "Based on the text, this person's public life is carried out in a division of the medical field, but he or she has suffered some kind of psychotic break, accounting for the death threat in verse form." "Shit," Moretti cursed. "And you have no idea who could've done this?"

Flack jumped in again. "Lizzie told me yesterday that she didn't have any problems before Friday. So the nut that did this has gotta be connected to Radman."

"And that's why we're here," I said, finishing Flack's thought. "I'm gonna flip through Radman's file and see if I can't refresh my memory as to who this guy is."

Moretti nodded. "Got it." He walked over to his desk and pulled Radman's file from a tray, then came back and handed it over to me. "I dunno why I kept this out, but here ya go." "Thanks, _bello_." I turned to Flack and said, "I'm gonna look this over in my office. You wanna come or you gonna cause some more trouble out here?" "You go ahead," my dark-haired companion replied. "I'm sure there's somethin' the three of us can agree on."

"All right, but if you're gonna kill each other, at least keep it down so I can think."

"You won't hear a peep, Doc," said O'Connell. As I turned and walked away, I heard Flack try the 'crazy cop story' approach on the two unis: "So, you boys bagged any real whackjobs recently?"

A smile crept across my lips as I made my way along a narrow hallway. I passed the room in which, not 48 hours before, I'd stared down Taylor Radman across the interrogation table. _Such a lack of remorse,_ I thought. _Not even a hint of taking responsibility for his actions. _Arriving at my office, I had to do some creative juggling of the file and my keys, but finally I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The office wasn't huge, that's for sure—not much bigger than a couple of storage closets stuck together. But it was a huge privilege for me to have even this small amount of space, something I never hesitated to thank Chief Fitz for whenever I saw him. The entire back wall of the office was comprised of one huge window, letting in plenty of outside light to illuminate the random notes scrawled across my all-important white board. I set the folder down on the mahogany desk and looked at my favorite old picture of me, Matty and Casey. . .Mom had taken it when we were all still in elementary school, well before the pain of my brother's death and Dad's transformation into an abusive monster. To remind me of those happy times, the photo never left my sight any time I was at work. _I gotta tell Case about this weekend. Can't keep treatin' her like a little kid just 'cause she's my baby sister._

I plunked my tired frame into the chair behind my desk, scooted back to put my legs up on the table, and flipped open Radman's file. **Taylor Michael Radman, born 9/23/72 in Dallas, Texas. 31 years old when he went away for the rapes of at least five different women. Working construction in Southie when he got popped.** I frowned. _So where does the medical field come into this? _

I moved on to the more detailed portions of Radman's biographical sketch. **Both parents still alive in '03, one older sister. All three residents of Texas at the time. No family members showed up for the trial**. "That would explain two things," I said aloud. "He was the only one who had the guts to leave Texas, so he must've seen himself as a trailblazer, entitled to whatever he wanted. And the absence of his family at the trial may have created a sense of abandonment. . .but. . .hm. Perhaps it had already been in place for a number of years."

_So when Taylor was arrested on Friday night, he wouldn't have asked his family for help. No, he must have turned to someone he could control—someone he knew wouldn't leave him. Who'd he call? Who'd he use his one phone call on?_

I turned to the notes section of the file and found an entry in Moretti's chicken-scratch handwriting dated **03/12/10. Suspect phoned an individual named Mara to inform her of his arrest. Mentioned she should "get in touch with his Doctor" and hung up**. I looked up, stunned. That had to be it. Mara. An order to hunt down Taylor's "Doctor". . .me. The one who'd put him back in jail. I began scouring the file from start to finish, looking for another mention of Mara's name--but came up empty. _Who is this woman? And more to the point, where the hell can I find her so she doesn't bump me off? _My internal questions were suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of my phone and the peppy voices of the Black Eyed Peas. I looked at the caller ID and smiled when I saw Ash's name pop up on the screen.

I stood up from the desk as I answered, knowing I'd need to move somewhere with better coverage. "What up, chica?" "Liz?" said Ash, rather loudly. "You there?" "Yeah! Gimme a sec—reception sucks in here!" Quickly exiting the office and traversing the hallway with long strides, I passed the trio of Flack and my now-joking colleagues discussing the last Rangers-Bruins game. I covered the mouthpiece for a second and whispered, "Maurz, it's Parker—should I tell her you want dinner too or are ya just interested in bangin' her?" I didn't wait for an answer, but instead grinned impishly and kept cruising straight into the lobby. Jimmy was nowhere to be found--must've been on a break. "Can you hear me now, Ash?"

Parker's voice returned to a normal volume as she said, "Good to go, girlfriend."

"So whatcha got for me, Parks?"

"Well, this little scrap of paper had quite the lengthy story to tell, Liz. The paper itself was exposed to sunlight for approximately one hour, so looks like your perp dropped it off around one o'clock. The blood used to write the note contained female DNA, and the results of the handwriting analysis one of my colleagues performed suggest that your poet is also female. She appears to be experiencing emotional volatility and impaired attention—you know, lots of hesitations in the writing, different types of pen strokes, stuff like that."

The wheels of potential diagnoses were already turning in my mind. "Awesome. That's wicked helpful. Anything else?"

"You know it," my ebony-skinned friend said. "I lifted a thumbprint from a corner of the note, and I got a match in one of our employee databases."

I could barely contain my enthusiasm. "Sweet! Who is it?"

The doors to the precinct opened behind me, letting in a burst of freezing cold air. However, I was so captivated by Ash's information that I didn't even turn around. "This chick's an employee at Mass General—works in Autopsy. Her name's Mara Davis."

Suddenly the barrel of a gun was pressed firmly into my right temple, sending my heart leaping up into my throat. A female voice slowly hissed like a venomous snake into my left ear. "Get off the phone, Doctor Ryder. Now."

I obeyed, but not before trying to alert Ash to my precarious situation. Before the woman could stop me, I quickly said, "Um, Parker, I gotta go. I'm worried about my cat." Snapping my phone shut, I silently hoped my friend had remembered our old clubbing lingo. Back in the day, "I'm worried about my cat" was our code for "I'm talkin' to a real scumbag here. We gotta bail." If my message had gotten through, Ash was already calling the police. Now it was my job to distract the person pointing the gun at my head. I thought I'd take the diplomatic approach first.

"Mara," I said, "please put the gun down. Tell me what you want and I will get it for you." Unfortunately, this tactic completely backfired in the light of her psychosis. She let out a piercing shriek and slapped my phone from my hand, sending it hurtling across the tiled floor. "How did you know my name?! He was right! Taylor was right! You ARE evil!"

_Shit_. Thinking quickly, I tried to regain some control. "Well, I knew it had to be you because of your love for Taylor. I can hear it in your voice. He talked about you the other night while I was with him."

For a second I thought my lie had worked, because she sighed happily and asked, "What else did he say about me?" The gun's muzzle relaxed slightly against my head and I thought about grabbing it from her hand. Suddenly, though, a switch flipped in Mara's brain and she snarled again. "No, no, NO! You're lying! All lies! Shut up and take me to Taylor!"

I knew full well that Radman was up north at Suffolk County Jail, but I wasn't about to tell Mara that. I had to maintain the façade of being able to give her what she wanted as long as possible. _If I can just get her to the boys,_ I thought,_ they'll get me outta this. Flack and I have been through stuff like this before. _I pointed down the hall with my still-stinging hand and said, "Down there and to the left. That's where you'll find Taylor. I can let him out. I'll fix the mistake I made and you two can be together again."

Mara switched the gun's position from the side of my head to its back and shoved me roughly down the hall. As we walked, I wracked my brain to figure out what demons this woman was battling. _Okay. She's going from calm to crazy in a matter of seconds._ _**Emotional volatility**__. Ash said the note showed lots of breaks and hesitations. __**Impaired attention**__._ _She clearly sees herself as Taylor's rescuer in this case—crusading against the unjust powers that be to snatch her lover from the jaws of the law_. _**Delusional.**_

I was worried that Mara would hear Flack bullshitting with Moretti and O'Connell, but she didn't seem to be tuned into anything besides me and the .45 shoved into my brain stem. She kept muttering to herself over and over again: "Find the Doctor. Find the Doctor. Find the Doctor and get him out." Her gait as we moved down the hall was crazily crooked, snapping the final pieces of the puzzle into place for me. _**Disorganized speech. Bizarre posture**__. That's it! __**Brief Psychotic Disorder!**_ _Mara must have been waiting years for Taylor to get out of prison. Well, who knows? Maybe they met after he was already in the joint. Plenty of women write letters to cons. So she waits and waits for him to get out, but then he attacks me on Friday—and I put his ass back in the pen for the second time. And she snaps._ _Ok, I know what's wrong with her—so what the fuck do I do now?!_

After what seemed like years, we turned left at the end of the hallway and burst into the central atrium. Flack looked like he was in the middle of describing an Avery slap shot when looks of utter horror crossed the BPD boys' faces. Don turned his tall frame to face me, and upon seeing the gun pressed to my head shouted, "What the hell?!" I saw him instinctively reach for his piece, but he and I both knew it wasn't there. Instead, the unis drew their guns and began a shouting match: "Put the gun down, ma'am! Put it down now!" I suddenly found myself being used as a shield from the unis' guns, and Mara started screaming at me: "Who are these men?! They're not supposed to be here! Not supposed to be here! Get them out! OUT OUT OUT!"

I tried to justify the presence of the three men: "They're here to help, Mara. They'll help me make things ri--"

She cut me off by digging the fingers of her left hand directly into my still-tender shoulder. Pain rocketed through my entire body as I gasped, my knees buckling in the wake of the deep nerve spasms. "SHUT UP, all of you! You men must get out! Or else I will slay this horrible woman! GET OUT NOW!" I was about to pass out from the searing pain in my shoulder, but managed to keep my now-watering eyes trained on Flack's twin pools of cold blue rage. Over and over I sent the same message: _It's her! She wrote the note! It's her!_

As though he had heard my internal plea, Flack put up his large hands in a sign of retreat. He took a step towards Mara, speaking slowly: "Ma'am, why don't you tell us who you are. If you let us know what you want, we can help ya out." The BPD boys looked at Don incredulously. O'Connell hissed, "What the hell are ya doin', Flack?!"

My captor wasn't so keen on the idea either. "This is between me and the evil Doctor!" she screamed. "I must rescue Taylor from her clutches!" Flack's eyes widened a little and he quickly said, "Taylor Radman?" Again, I felt the pressure of the gun ease up. Mara spoke again, but more quietly this time. "Yes, that's my Taylor," she said, now suddenly serene. "My Taylor needs me."

Flack managed to stretch a warm smile across his face and pretended to be relieved. "Oh, that's wonderful!" he said. "He's been waiting for you. If you put the gun down and come with me, I'll take you to him."

Mara didn't say anything for a few seconds, as though she were skeptical of Flack's offer. Silence reigned in the tense air of the atrium. Then traces of hope crept into her voice: "He's really waiting for me?" Flack nodded enthusiastically, reeling her in with his soothing voice: "Of course he is. Just come with me and you can see him."

Mara took the gun away from the back of my head, released my shoulder and stepped towards Flack. I saw her face out of the corner of my right eye—she was smiling and had a starry-eyed look about her. Although my head was still pounding from the effects of her crushing grip, I didn't hesitate. Lashing out with my right elbow, I caught Mara square between the eyes and broke the bridge of her nose. She reeled back instantly, screaming in pain. As the blood poured down her face, she raised her gun and moved to fire it! Before she could blow a hole in my chest, though, Moretti put two slugs into her right shoulder and she dropped to the ground.

Writhing there on the floor, Mara wailed as one who had failed a great quest might. "I'm sorry, Taylor!" she screamed, over and over again. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Moretti and O'Connell ran over and cuffed her hands behind her back. O'Connell shook his head and looked at Mara. "Not half as sorry as you're gonna be, lady," he said. "Jail's a bitch of a place to rehab a bum shoulder." Moretti, his gun holstered once more, used his radio to call for a bus.

Meanwhile, I sank to the floor, resting my head against the cold metal leg of a uni's desk. Fatigue washed over me, from both the pain in my shoulder and the exertion of striking Mara. Flack saw me go down and rushed to my side, taking me into his arms. "Lizzie, you okay?!" His voice was higher and more panicked than normal, even for a crisis situation. "Did she hurt you?" I looked into his worried blue eyes and managed a weak smile. "I'm okay, D. Nothin' a _real_ hockey fan can't handle." He shook his head at me in amazement. "You're a piece of work, Ryder." Flack bent over my throbbing shoulder, and although he tried to hide it, his jawline hardened in response to what he saw. I didn't follow his gaze, though. I didn't want to see what I knew to be there. Mara, likely using her professional grasp of human anatomy, had used the fingers she dug deep into my injured shoulder to pull my arm bone down and away from the rest of my body. My rotator cuff was likely torn, and the gap between my humerus and scapula felt like someone had buried and twisted a sharp knife into my skin. I tried to move it slightly and nearly threw up from the ensuing jolt.

Don attempted to get me to sit still. "Lizzie, don't move it. Just hang out here for a sec." But a sudden flood of adrenaline overruled the pain, and I staggered to my feet. I knew what I had to do. I walked over to where Moretti and O'Connell had the still-screaming Mara handcuffed on the floor, knelt down, and grabbed her face in my right hand. "Mara, be quiet," I ordered. I used my strongest voice in hopes of sounding like Radman--however he had spoken to her, it was enough to establish control over her actions. Surprisingly, she obeyed, her eyes wide with the terror of a broken mind. "Listen to me. Taylor is not waiting for you. He does not care about you. Taylor is a serial rapist and was using you to do his dirty work." She shook her head furiously, not wanting to hear it. "You're wrong! You're wrong! He is my everything! Take me to him!"

I sighed. My attempts at bringing her back to reality had failed. So I lowered my voice and laced it with venom: "He won't want to see you, Mara. You failed him. I'm still alive, which means you didn't do what he told you to do. He will be very, _very_ disappointed in you." As though she was staring at evil itself, the color instantly drained from her face. Her brown eyes showed hints of tears, and I thought she was going to cry. I released her face from my grasp, realizing that I would get no answers from this woman. But staring at her right hand, I noted a scab on her index finger--and remembered she had written the note to me with her own blood. "Why?" I demanded, no longer attempting to play the masterful shrink. "Why did you write the note in blood?" A striking look of clarity suddenly filled the features of the woman before me. She stared at me intently and said: "Sometimes we have to spill our own blood for the ones we love."

Just then the bus showed up, its sirens echoing off the buildings down Washington Avenue. Two EMTs came running down the hallway and assessed the scene. They spoke rapidly to O'Connell and Moretti, but I barely heard their chatter as it floated around my head. I was stunned by what I had just heard from Mara's mouth. The awesome power of the brain and heart working together had proved its potency once again. Here this woman was bleeding from her shoulder, handcuffed and ready to be hauled off to jail. . .and yet in her tattered psyche, all that mattered to her was her love for that son of a bitch Radman. I watched the ambulance techs load a now-smiling Mara onto a stretcher and out of the atrium.

A deep yet gentle voice finally broke through my stupefied haze. "Lizzie," it was saying. "Lizzie. C'mon." I turned, still gaping, to find Flack standing at my side. He gestured to a third EMT, who had arrived shortly after the first two. The young female First Responder guided me over to a desk and, upon learning that I had re-separated my shoulder, helped me remove my sweater so she could check out the damage. "She looked at me and said, in a classic clipped Roxbury accent, "This is gonna hurt." I glanced up at Flack and took his hand, gripping it tightly. As my shoulder was moved in all directions to test the levels of pain, my canine teeth bit deeper and deeper into my bottom lip. I didn't scream, but instead squeezed Flack's warm hand with all my strength—especially as the EMT probed the ripped-up war zone between my arm and shoulder blade.

When she was finished, my tormentor "(Fitzgerald") produced a huge sling from her kit--designed to provide more stability than the one I'd reluctantly put on this morning. This new piece of equipment looked like a robotic arm, and even though my searing pain I eyed its material skeptically. "You sure this thing is necessary?" Fitzgerald silenced my complaints with a swift glare. "Keep this thing on for two days, then go see your primary care doc to make sure it's stabilized." As she was talking, she handed me a couple of painkillers. "Take 'em." Then she turned to Flack, apparently hoping to encounter less resistance from my companion. "If the pain doesn't get any better in two hours, take her to the hospital, k?" "You got it, Fitz," Flack said, more amused than anything. Fitzgerald packed up and headed out with great speed, leaving me with the boys once more.

Flack, Moretti and O'Connell didn't waste too much time before exchanging knowing looks. Paul voiced their collective thoughts: "All right, let's get everybody's statements busted out on paper. Faster we do this, faster we get Doc outta here. Maurz, I need your piece, buddy." Maurizio nodded and handed over his gun. It wouldn't take long for the brass to conclude that he'd fired his weapon for good reasons, but procedure was procedure. The four of us sat down and began scribbling our detailed accounts of the afternoon's events. Fitz's drugs were beginning to numb my shoulder nicely, but not enough to completely eliminate the pain. When I had written down everything I could remember, I handed my statement to Paul and looked at Flack. "Ya ready there, Karate Kid?" he asked. I nodded. Don turned to O'Connell and said, "You mind givin' us a lift?"

I broke in, not wanting to inconvenience my friend. He'd have enough paperwork and bureaucratic shit to deal with this afternoon, especially with Moretti temporarily sidelined. "O.C, no worries, man. We'll get the T." Flack looked at me, his eyebrows arched in amazement. But O'Connell didn't blink. Instead, he behaved as though I hadn't said anything. "Sure, Flack. No problem. And as for you, Doc—I'm officially declarin' ya unfit to take care of yourself. '_We'll get the T_.' Jesus fuckin' Christ."

After I gave Maurizio a huge hug and many thank yous, Flack, Paul and I headed out. "You owe me one, Ryder!" called Maurizio's joking voice over my shoulder.

The ride back to Cambridge was mostly quiet. I gazed out the squad car window upon the millions of snowflakes gracing the streets with their presence. _I wonder what kinda snowball I could make with one hand, _I thought. _Maybe I'll try tomorrow. _Real deep musings after almost dying, I know—but it's amazing what the mind will do in order to protect us from the effects of trauma. Flack and O'Connell were in the front seat, talking in low voices about something related to my safety. I couldn't concentrate long enough to listen, though.

Paul's squad car eased up next to the curb outside my house, and he jumped out to open my door for me. I tugged on his jacket, almost as a child would, and after using it to get out of the car gave him a hug with my one good arm. "Thanks, O.C.," I said, hoping he could hear the gratitude in those two simple words. "Anytime, Doc. You call if you need somethin', okay? Maurz and I got your back." My blonde-haired chauffeur turned to Flack, and their palms met in a firm handshake. "Good to meet ya, Flack." "Likewise, O'Connell. Take it easy."

Upon entering my house, the previous day's process of shedding my jacket was repeated, luckily with less pain this time. Once we'd accomplished that task, Don and I just stood there in silence for a few seconds. I wasn't ready for him to ask me how I was doing, so I played my old card of humor and hoped it'd win the hand. "That was some nice nut negotiating you did there, D," I said with a smirk. "I thought for a sec there you were gonna bust out some tea and ask her how she and Taylor met."

"Boy, that's the thanks I get for distractin' the psycho that was gonna kill you?" He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. "Well, what can I say, Lizzie—I tried. I guess I'll just never live up to the 'Messenger of God' stunt you pulled on the Angel/Devil case."

I gave him a smug look. "Often replicated, never duplicated."

"So, what do you wanna do?" he said. "You wanna talk about what happened?"

I stared at the floor and shook my head slowly. "Nah. Not really. Gotta process a little more first."

He put his hands in his pockets and nodded. "Ok. You want me to leave ya alone for awhile?"

It was all I could do to keep from yelling "NO!" But somehow I managed to stick to, "Oh, no, that's not what I meant. It's, um, really helping to have you around, so no, I don't think it'd be good for me to be alone right now." I looked at my watch, partially because I was blushing but also to check the time. "5, huh? Bet we can catch the last half of the Celtics game."

"Fan-tastic," Flack said, rolling his eyes.

Miraculously, I managed to keep from thinking about Mara and Taylor during the next two quarters of basketball. My Celtics were up against the Cavaliers, so Shaq and LeBron were doing their best to put on a show. We gained and lost the lead three times in the fourth quarter, but finally pulled ahead by 6 with two minutes left. In classic fashion, Shaq missed two free throws that could've tied the game, and we took it 98-96.

Local ESPN coverage quickly shifted to a preview of the Red Sox's upcoming season, and Flack took this opportunity to head into the kitchen. I could hear him opening cabinets and rifling through drawers, but I wasn't sure if he was scouting out dinner possibilities or just wanted a snack. A few moments later, the noise stopped and he re-emerged.

"So you got two choices," he said, very matter-of-factly. "Spaghetti and meatballs or chicken stir-fry." I was too exhausted to argue, so I went with the comfort food. "Da pasta it is, Flack." He accepted my order and turned to go put his culinary skills to work. "D?" I said, sounding much weaker than I would've liked. "Yeah?" "Thank you." He smiled and said, "You got it, Lizzie."

Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting at my deep cherry wood dining table with a bowlful of thick pasta in front of me, Jack in my lap and Flack on my right side. Ahhhh. I exhaled strongly, some of the day's stress leaving my muscles. Digging into my spaghetti, I took a big bite and savored the fresh taste of the homemade tomato sauce Flack had whipped up. "Y'know, if you didn't live in New York, I think I'd hafta hire you as my full-time chef," I said. "This is fantastic!"

He shrugged. "You got a much nicer kitchen than I do. I'm just takin' advantage of the surroundings." We continued eating in silence for a few moments, and then Flack got a teasing look on his face. "So, your boy O'Connell seems like he's got the hots for ya. Whaddya think, huh? Ya think two BPD cops could hook up without killin' each other?"

I almost sent pasta spraying across the table with laughter. "Hah! O'Connell? Nah, it ain't like that with the two of us." He shot me a skeptical look, and I shrugged. "Not for me, anyway. O.C's a great guy, for sure—but we're just friends. He was one of PK's good pals on the force, and so when Pak-Man died Paul and I sorta stuck together."

"Gotcha," Flack said. "I guess it's the same way for me with Jess' boys. I'm gettin' to know the unis she worked with before we were partners, that kinda thing. And even though it's a shitty way to have it happen, the CSIs and I are a lot closer now too."

As always, I appreciated his willingness to his thoughts of Jess with me. "I guess that's the thing about a brave cop dying," I said. "Brings people together in strange ways." _Who would have come together had I died today?_ I thought. _Would Flack have gotten Casey through it? Would the CSIs come to my funeral? Who would take care of Jack? _

Flack must've sensed my morbid thought process, because he placed his left hand over my right and said, very seriously, "Liz, tell me the truth. How're ya doin'?"

I stared at my fork, its tines still bearing a bit of bright red sauce. Looked like blood, almost. I chose my words carefully, still not wanting to seem meek or frightened to the man I cared so deeply for. "I guess I don't really know what to make of what happened today," I said, slowly. "It was a shock, that's for sure—but I feel better now that I know who wanted me dead. I'll get through it."

Flack didn't look convinced, but acquiesced to the nature of my profession. "Well, you're the head doc. You prob'ly know more about this stuff than I do." He leaned a bit closer, though, and continued. "Look. I know you can take care of yourself, ok? And you seem like you're doin' pretty well for what just happened. Even so, O'Connell and I were talkin' in the car on the way over here—he's gonna get some protection for ya just until Radman and Davis are locked up."

"Ok," I said. "Probably unnecessary, but I appreciate it."

"And I want you to let me stay here for the rest of the week," he said, taking me completely by surprise. "I know you got your sister and everything, but I got some personal time stored up at work and I wanna make sure someone takes care of ya for a few more days."

I could feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest—and tears rising in my throat. The sincerity present in his azure eyes was overwhelming. A bit flustered, I tried to get some clarification: "Well, um, wow--thanks, D. I really appreciate it. But why are you doin' this?"

He didn't hesitate. "Because of what you did for me after Jess was killed—you came down and helped me through the worst days of my life. And you've been there on the phone every time I've needed someone to talk to at two in the mornin'. . .I owe you for that. And I care about you, Lizzie. You try to be so damn strong all the time, but everybody needs some help sometimes, even if they're a badass shrink with an attitude. I just wanna be the same good friend to you that you've been to me."

After his words faded into the air around the table, I found myself overcome with emotion. At no moment while Mara was holding me at gunpoint had I panicked—instead, I had somehow remained calm and logical. Now, though, I realized just how close I had come to death, and to have that happen twice in two days was too much for even the most rational mind to handle. I realized that I absolutely could not be alone in the wake of the attempts on my life, and that I desperately needed the man I was in love with. The man who was selflessly giving me his all—friendship, loyalty and care--even as he still grieved for his murdered Angell.

I began to shake, and tears started to flow down my cheeks. All control was lost as I cried with my entire body, spasms wracking my every nerve. Flack's beautiful eyes had penetrated the thick walls of my defenses, and the enormous tidal wave of fear that had been building all weekend finally washed over my heart. "I'm scared!" I managed to choke out.

Don took his napkin and wiped the tears from my eyes. He dropped his voice to a whisper and said, "What are you scared of, Lizzie?"

I couldn't tell him. I couldn't! I'd made it four years without saying a damned thing, so why not last one more night? I found myself shaking my head almost violently, the same way Mara had done this afternoon in the midst of my spiteful interrogation. "I can't, D. I can't tell you."

Flack took my hand in his and squeezed it. "C'mon, Lizzie. You can trust me. Just let it go."

I was almost hysterical at this point. "No, D, No! It's not fair! It's not fair to her, it's not fair to you--especially since you're here and you're tryin' to take care of me, which I probably don't even deserve. I'm scared this is gonna screw everything up and that you're gonna hate me."

The NYPD Detective sitting in front of me surprised me with what he said next. He furrowed his brows, looked straight through me with his ice-blue eyes, and said, "Elizabeth Lynn Ryder, I have no idea what the hell you're talkin' about, but I'm orderin' you to tell me what's wrong. If ya can't trust your best friend, who can ya trust?"

Something in his stern tone brought me back to Earth, and I knew I had to tell him the truth. I closed my eyes, squeezing more hot tears from between my lashes. _Jess_, I thought, _please forgive me for what I'm about to do. I wish I'd been able to keep this from him longer, because I just want him to be happy with his memories of you. I'm so sorry._

All traces of panic had left my body. I cleared my throat, looked Flack straight in the face and said, "I'm in love with you, Don."

I expected him to fall off his chair, drop his mouth open, or at least let fly with a "What?!", but none of those things came to pass. Instead, he just kept looking at me, which inspired me to continue.

"It's like this, D. I said 'I'm scared' for two reasons: one, I really am frightened because of everything that's happened over the last three days. I thought I was gonna die on Friday night, and I came even closer to bitin' the dust this afternoon. I'm tryin' to be the tough Boston cop here, but underneath I'm all messed up. So your offer of staying here for a few more nights is a really good thing—something I definitely need."

I took a drink of water and then kept going. "But I'm also scared that what I just told you is gonna ruin our friendship. I've, um—I've loved you as long as I've known you, even back when we were supposedly just messin' around and having fun. You were never just a fling for me, even though that's probably what it was for you." His forehead furrowed, morphing his face into an expression that looked almost like pity, which wasn't what I was going for at all. _Shit._

"But I want you to know," I went on, "that I've never had anything but your happiness in mind this whole time. I was ecstatic when you and Jess found each other, because she made you so damn happy. I've never seen your face like the way it was when you two were in the same room. She was an amazing woman, and I could never be what she was to you. I know that.

And I feel horrible for telling you this while you're still trying to figure out how to move forward with your life. I tried to keep it inside, Flack, I really did--because your friendship means more to me than most things in this world, and I don't wanna screw that up. So there it is." Depleted from the revelation, I leaned back in my chair and searched his face with my worried green eyes.

Finally, he exhaled deeply and looked at the clasped hands resting just above his belt buckle. "Well, Lizzie, first of all, thanks for sayin' what you did. Takes a lotta guts to do somethin' like that. You're right that I miss Jess, and that I'm tryin' to figure out what to do now that she's gone."

I couldn't keep myself from interrupting. "And I don't want to mess that up! I don't want to interrupt your grieving process because it wouldn't be fair and you probably don't feel the same way about me at all—"

"Liz, play shrink for a sec and lemme finish, huh?"

"Sorry."

"Look, nothin' is gonna fuck up our friendship, ok? We've been hangin' out too long for anything to mess it up now. I mean, we make a great team, right? Takin' down psycho killers from New York to New England!"

"You mean New England to New York," I said, smiling a little now.

"Whatever," he said, rolling his eyes. "You get the point."

"But isn't it gonna be awkward for you to spend time with me now that I told you?" I was biting the fingernails of my right hand now, something I only do when nervous beyond all belief.

Now it was Flack's turn to look a little embarrassed. "Well, Lizzie, here's the deal. I, um, I'm not gonna be ready for another relationship for a long time. You know Jess was pretty special."

"Of course, D, of course," I said, doing my best to sound like a competent psychotherapist instead of a brokenhearted teenager. "That's only natural."

"Dammit, Liz, will you keep that big mouth shut for a second?!" He clapped his hands together and started again. "I was gonna say that although I'm not gonna be ready for a while, I was hopin' that when I am--well--that I could be with you."

I think I would've fallen out of my own chair were it not for the cat weighing down my lap. "What? You sure?" It came out before I thought about what I'd said, and I blushed. Flack laughed. "Well, believe me, it ain't no picnic figurin' out that you're stuck on a Boston chick—'specially if she happens to be a good friend. But I care about you a lot, and you really do know me better than pretty much anybody." He shrugged. "I'm not gonna ask you to wait for me, 'cause that's not fair. But if it works out, I'd like to try it."

More tears made their way down the landscape of my face, but these were of joy and relief. The knowledge that our friendship was safe comforted me to my core—and hearing that Flack cared for me the way I did for him banished all fears to the deepest recesses of my mind. I knew I'd wait for him as long as it took, but also that I would wish for my own death before I'd infringe upon the time he needed to heal in the wake of Jess' murder.

"Sounds good to me," I said, still in disbelief. "We'll figure it out. Hey, thanks for not lookin' at me like I was crazy when I told ya."

He sat back and laced his fingers behind his greying gelled hair, exposing a tiny patch of abdominal skin."I gotta admit, it wasn't the first thing I was expectin' to hear. But I wasn't totally surprised either."

I scoffed and kicked his chair with my foot. "The ever-modest Don Flack, ladies and gents," I said. "Be sure to tip your waitresses--he'll be here all week."

"That's not what I meant, ya little redheaded twerp," he said, grinning. "I've just been thinkin' you might feel the same way I do, and the last coupla times we've hung out it seemed like I might be right. I'm not tryin' to be a big-headed shmuck over here."

"Aw, you've never had to try to do that, D," I said, teasing. "Just comes naturally to you."

We just sat there for a few minutes, appreciating the secrets that can be shared between good friends. Eventually, I stood up and carried my dinner dishes to the kitchen. Flack followed suit, and patted my good shoulder as I tried to wash my bowl in the sink. "I got this, Ryder," he said, taking the dish from my good hand. "You take that little furball and go find a movie to watch."

My mouth couldn't find the words to thank Flack enough for all that he'd done this weekend—the meals, the cleaning, the sympathetic ear—and of course there was the candor and honesty with which he'd spoken about our friendship just now. I felt so lucky to have such an incredible person in my life. So instead of trying to do the impossible, I obeyed his orders and walked into the den, sifting through my DVD collection before settling on one of the movies I knew we'd agree on. Jack joined me on the couch, and we took in a few of the previews until Flack walked in.

He took one look at the main title screen and laughed. "_Miracle,_ huh? Well, I guess that's the one hockey team we can both root for."

I made it about halfway through the movie before my eyelids started to droop. Filled with a good dinner and surrounded by those I loved, a long-absent feeling of safety spread over my entire body. Just for one night, I could relax and let my guard down instead of pretending to be immune to the heartaches of the world.

Later, I awoke to the odd sensation of weightlessness, almost like I was flying. _I must be dreaming._ Finally, I realized that Flack was carrying my tired body upstairs. The strong biceps I'd seen working this morning pressed into my back, and instantly I knew I would not fall. I stirred, wrapping my right arm around his neck. Burrowing my head into his taut chest, I let him take me down the hall towards my room.

He pushed my bedroom door open with a broad shoulder, and walking over to my bed sat me down on top of the comforter. Wordlessly, he grasped the waistband of the warm-ups I'd changed into and slid them off my long pale legs, folding them up and placing them on the floor. Then, ever-so-gently, Don unclasped the huge sling swallowing up my left side, carefully guiding my arm down until it lay flush with the rest of my body. I winced a little, but his care was such that I felt practically no pain.

After gingerly easing me out of my shirt, Flack laid my body underneath the green flannel sheets and pulled the blankets back over my skin. He bent over and kissed my cheek, leaving a slight hint of cologne behind. "'Night, Lizzie," he whispered. "Lemme know if you need anything." I nodded, and murmured "Mm-hmm."

He turned and began walking out of the room. "D?" I said, my voice faint against the darkness. "Yeah, Doc?" "Thank you. I don't know what I woulda done without you this weekend."

"Anytime, Red. Now get some sleep." Flack swung the door closed behind him, leaving a small gap for Jack just in case.

I yawned and hunkered down into my blankets, smiling at Flack's choice of nickname. He hadn't called me Red in years. My mind began drifting to the events of the day I'd had, but I decided the processing could wait. There would be plenty of time to pick apart the weekend's events in the days to come.

As I drifted off to sleep, I realized that all I cared about was how I'd finally told Flack the truth about my feelings for him. . .and that he'd given me full disclosure from his own heart.

*


End file.
